A year and two months ago, my whole world changed. I sat on the edge of my bed and listened intently into the phone as my mom told me she had cancer. I heard her tell me it was bad. I knew a little about how she felt. See, she watched her father go through chemotherapy and wither in front of her eyes. She never wanted her family to go through that. It is a sentiment I share, if it ever comes to that.
I supported her. I celebrated the little time I had with her. I helped her. I was her strength. And I worked my behind off to make sure she died peacefully. One year ago, she died in a hospice bed in her home. It was a quiet and muted by snow night.
I decided a few weeks ago that on her anniversary every year I wanted to celebrate her life, not her death. I bought myself some flowers, because she loved flowers. I chose yellow roses in remember for her. I made a chocolate pie, because we shared a love of chocolate pies. We hid them every holiday so we could eat them together.
I took time to go through some old photos and enjoyed seeing her face. I enjoyed the memories.
Today, I take joy in getting to know my mother. And not only that, but having her as my friend as well. There comes a point in all our lives. A transition between immaturity and maturity. One where we move from contempt, embarrassment, and disdain for our parents into the one in which they become our friends and confidants. She was my friend. I can look around and point to things in my home she had given me, but they are nothing compared to the memories we had together.
Of hitting curbs with the tires because we were laughing too hard to pay attention.
Of eating swiss rolls after a long day of errands.
Of having iron chef competitions any time we cooked together.
Of redecorating and waking up my sister as we laughed so hard. (Sorry Em)
Those memories stick with me. In remembering them, I am celebrating her life, her love of her family, and her persistence in being kind and understanding to everyone. Thank you for celebrating her life with me.
I supported her. I celebrated the little time I had with her. I helped her. I was her strength. And I worked my behind off to make sure she died peacefully. One year ago, she died in a hospice bed in her home. It was a quiet and muted by snow night.
I decided a few weeks ago that on her anniversary every year I wanted to celebrate her life, not her death. I bought myself some flowers, because she loved flowers. I chose yellow roses in remember for her. I made a chocolate pie, because we shared a love of chocolate pies. We hid them every holiday so we could eat them together.I took time to go through some old photos and enjoyed seeing her face. I enjoyed the memories.
Today, I take joy in getting to know my mother. And not only that, but having her as my friend as well. There comes a point in all our lives. A transition between immaturity and maturity. One where we move from contempt, embarrassment, and disdain for our parents into the one in which they become our friends and confidants. She was my friend. I can look around and point to things in my home she had given me, but they are nothing compared to the memories we had together.
Of hitting curbs with the tires because we were laughing too hard to pay attention.
Of eating swiss rolls after a long day of errands.
Of having iron chef competitions any time we cooked together.
Of redecorating and waking up my sister as we laughed so hard. (Sorry Em)
Those memories stick with me. In remembering them, I am celebrating her life, her love of her family, and her persistence in being kind and understanding to everyone. Thank you for celebrating her life with me.
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