Thoughtful person that she is, my good friend, Carol, called a couple days ago to invite my husband Harvey and I over for Mother’s Day dinner.
Knowing that I lost my mom seven months ago, she said “It must be hard for you not having her here anymore.” To which I replied: “It isn’t that hard until someone mentions it.”
And that’s how it starts.
The tears flowed as I looked at photos of Mom from her last few months, so tiny and confused.
Pictures of her are scattered throughout our home, reminding me of her transition from an elegant, well-coifed, educated woman, to a woman whose dementia had stolen all but the last remnants of her personality, mind and body. Ironically, it’s at this stage that she is least enigmatic.
It bothers me that my memories fast forward to my parents’ final few days, instead of remembering them in their prime, when they were healthy and vital.
Why is it I rarely think of Mom cooking, making pottery, and entertaining guests?
Or remember my dad, an accomplished surgeon and woodworking wonder, teaching my sister and me how to ride a bike?
While the long-ago memories are the sweeter ones, the most poignant and intense memoires are of their final days.
I realize how lucky some people are to pass away in their sleep, from nothing more than old age.
I suppose an argument could be made that, because of their lingering illnesses, at least I had a chance to get used to the idea that my parents’ end was near. Still, it’s always a shock.
The difference was this: while my dad’s kidney disease ravaged his body, his mind was still sharp as a tack.
So, I had lots of chances to ask him what I needed to ask, and say what I needed to say. I wasn’t that lucky with Mom, who slipped away from me by teaspoonful, almost daily.
When I realized all the things I didn’t know about her, it was already too late. That is a sad place to be.
Seven months since Mom’s passing and 14 years since Dad’s, I still feel incredibly guilty when I realize how much simpler and less stressful my life is now.
Would I change it all to have them back? Of course I would.
Every day I feel grateful and blessed for the time I had with them, and for all the gifts they gave me: unconditional love, security, a great education, and so much more.
What it teaches me is not to take anyone for granted, and to hold close the gift of love.
Shelley Civkin is a retired communications officer with the Richmond Public Library
