My mother

My mother died a month ago now. It wasn’t unexpected: she had been struggling with Parkinson’s disease for quite a few years, and it had become quite debilitating in the past couple of years—to the point that she could no longer feed herself, or move independently. She’d had quite a few visits in May, and my brother Steve and her two sisters—both past 80—had visited her on her birthday. She’d been weak, but smiled a lot and evidently enjoyed the visit.

But after they left, the staff reported that she “declined food.” They were wonderful people, and very caring of the people in their charge—all of whom die to leave—so they respected her wishes, and just kept her comfortable to the end a few days later.

There was a flurry of activity as family pitched in to help with an obituary, a memorial service, and with dismantling an apartment we’d rented for visiting.

But since then, I’ve found myself discarding the somewhat difficult memories of the frail woman in the wheelchair as I focus more and more on memories of her as the vibrant woman—and mother—she was before. I can hear her voice again—something I have missed for several years as the disease muted it. And I can feel her presence in the flowers we have from her; in the paintings here and at the cottage; as I prepare food… My screen saver displays random images from my large collection, and it surprises me how often I notice a picture with Mom in it.

I miss her, but not in a maudlin way. It is “natural” for a parent to predecease a child—but there is a finality to death of a parent I hadn't expected until my wife's parents and my father died: no more opportunity to talk something over; ask a question; or get advice.

I guess now I’ll just have to draw on memory and experience to have those conversations with her.

The picture shows Mom holding me when I was just a month old.