April

I’ve brainstormed on paper and typed a number of flowery intro paragraphs to this post, but why try to put lipstick on a pig?

My mom died seven years ago this month and it will never be ok.

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My mom wanted to be a mom. As a child, she consistently dreamed of being a wife and a mother. She had her own interests and life outside of our family, but there was never a shadow of a doubt: we were #1.

She and I never had those awkward or rough years that some mothers and daughters have, save for a two-week period when I was in 6th grade. It passed quickly and we were back to being inseparable. She was pretty much always my favorite person.

My junior year of high school, I fell into a deep depression. I told no one of it. I didn’t know what was happening to me but my mom did. One day as I was getting ready to leave for my job at the mall, she told me she thought maybe I needed a hug. She didn’t let go, and that was all it took. The tears finally flowed. The words spilled out. There was never judgment or discouragement from her – only hope and acceptance. It was my first step to recovering.

When I started working full-time, I gained about 10 lbs. and decided to join Weight Watchers. My mom joined with me. We went to Saturday morning weigh-ins. We never stayed for the meetings, opting instead to go to Panera for croissants and coffee. It was not ideal for weight loss, but it was pretty damn good for our relationship. We’d sit there talking for 2-3 hours and then wander home where we would continue talking. We never ran out of conversation.

There’s always more to say.

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Shortly after her 51st birthday, she was diagnosed with stage IV gastrointestinal adenocarcinoma. That’s doctor-speak for terminal stomach cancer. Sixteen months later, she was gone. I was 25.

You could argue that 25 years is a lot of time. If you drove your car for 25 years, people would probably comment how surprising it is that the car still runs. Or if you lived in a house for 25 years, you probably called it your forever home at some point. And yet, 25 years with the person who gets you just feels like a flash in the pan.

My life has changed a lot in seven years. I’m no longer a newlywed. We’ve moved three times. Had two kids. Gotten different jobs. On the surface, very little is the same. I like to believe that if she found me today though, she’d still know my soul because I am still a girl who just wants her mother.

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April 20th was the day it all ended, but April 19th was the day we knew it was coming. April 18th was the day she moved to hospice and April 17th  – my brother’s 21st birthday – was the last day she was lucid. April 16th was the day they told us she was too weak for any more chemo, April 15th was spent researching last-ditch efforts to fix this and April 14th was the last day she was in our home. April 13th she watched her last episode of Modern Family and April 12th we talked about my brother’s upcoming birthday.

Today is April 11th.

April 11th is the last day of April that I don’t explicitly remember what I was doing in 2011.

April is not an easy month.

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Death is nothing at all… Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used… Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waitng for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. (Henry Scott-Holland)