Wememberance Wednesday

Sixty-one years ago today, my mom was born. Four years and three hundred, thirty-nine days ago, she died. I'm no mathematician (I even have problems spelling 'mathematician'), but to die at the age of 56 in the 21st century seems really fucking unfair. Is it ironic that when I used to whine 'that's not fair!', my mom used to reply 'who ever said life was fair?'

Please understand that I see my mom as a human being - and that to me, means a couple of things. Sadly, it means that she was flawed. She had some major issues, dealing (or not dealing) with stuff that I can't even begin to imagine. And she didn't always handle it well. Her alcoholism and subsequent poverty is very clearly the reason she is no longer with us. Well, that and a medical system denies basic health screening to the poor. But make no mistake: she drunk herself into a situation where getting well again was always going to be tough. Her early years were tough, I'm told, and her adult life had its share of tragedies, too. I remember going to get her in a hotel room in Arizona, where she had verbally abused the staff for weeks as she quite literally tried to drink herself to death. I remember that she lost everything, systematically, because she was hurt, afraid and lonely. I remember all of that.

But I also remember how generous she was. I remember the first time she felt 'rich' and gave my brother and I each a $100 bill. I remember that well into our adult lives, we were her world, and everything she had she wanted to share with us. I remember her heartbeat and how, as a small child, I would nestle into her chest and fall asleep. I remember the first time I broke a bone, and how she would look after me when I was ill (which I was, a lot). I remember her driving me to practice, picking me up, and teaching me softly what was right and wrong. I remember her driving me to my first college lecture, and how I had to stop myself crying before I went into the room. I remember telling her about the first time I masturbated, and my first one-night stand. I remember the Christmas in Paris, when she packed a small artificial tree and we unwrapped tiny chocolates as our presents. I remember her husband, my father, as well as her boyfriends, girlfriends and pets. I remember so many good things about her; she is so much more to me than the last few years of her life.

I can't say honestly that I always honour her as I should. I make mistakes she's warned me about, I do some of the things she tried to teach me to be better than. But today, sixty-one too short years after she was born, I look at my daughter, named after my mom, and I hope that Mom sees and knows the very best thing I've ever done. A good friend of mine assures me that she does, and I'm choosing to believe it.

Happy Birthday, Mom. You are greatly missed.