On July 8, my sweet mother lost her battle with ovarian cancer, and my life will never be the same again.
I’d been vague about it here to respect her wishes of not wanting people to know she was sick again after a wonderful remission last summer, and I don’t know when she stopped reading here, but all I’ve ever wanted to do in life is make my mom proud, so I wasn’t going to not respect her wishes.
I know that I don’t know what’s ahead as far as grief, but I do hope to get back to some semblance of my normal life soon, and that includes writing here more. For the past few months, it felt so disingenuous to write about some! great! workout! when my mom was dying. I’m sure I’ll write more about all of this soon, but I want to read the words I spoke at her wake last night. (Not the funeral, no way in hell could I have gotten up in front of a full church to deliver these without losing it. Or tripping.)
A college friend of mine joked on a trip with my mom that she was six years old. “Well, I’m 4,” my mom replied. Father John yesterday asked us to describe my mom and one of the first phrases that came to mind was light-hearted. She loved Tinkerbell and Cinderella and watching Elf with me.
She touched everyone she met with that light spirit. That some of you only met her once or twice and are here is a testament to that. She loved when I brought friends home, and treated them as though they were her own children — unless they asked for a recipe for her famous, closely-guarded spaghetti sauce. I know she’s making a big pot of it in heaven right now.
She sang me “You Are My Sunshine” as a baby, and it became “our” song. It is no coincidence that the sun shone brightly every time I visited in these tough past seven months, on the day she left us, and every day since. I know that’s her shining down on us.
She was taken from us too early, but we are beyond blessed that the years we had with her were so full of life, and she lives on within us all.
Some other posts related to her journey:
When we learned she was in remission (in a sick twist, it was exactly a year later that she died.)
For anyone else who has lost a parent:
1. Would honestly love any tips on how to navigate the rocky road ahead (ice cream pun intentional: Carol loves ice cream.)
2. Don’t worry, she’s making your parent spaghetti sauce up there.