year 13

On a Friday morning during my sophomore year of college, I checked my voice mail from the library. On the machine, there was a nurse’s voice. Her name was Robin. “You should get here as soon as possible,” she said. I had spent the entire previous night and that morning thinking, that in spite of what was clear, my mother was not going to die this week. It was buying me a little time, in some way that in retrospect, I still don’t understand.

My mother died at 2.30 am on February 22, 1998. I still remember waking up in the bed in my friend’s parent’s guest room to the phone call, solidifying my fear of the sound of ringing forever. I listened to my aunt’s voice deliver the news, and hung up. I thought, my mother is dead. And then, somehow,  I went back to sleep. I may or may not have woken up, and it’s 13 years later.

For the last  nine or so months,  I’ve been shuffling my life like cards, rearranging some things,  taking others  out, pushing some off until later.  I know my mother  did the same thing. On the loveseat in her bedroom were piles of new clothes, still in their store wrappers, with the tags on, waiting to be worn on a yet to be determined occasion.  Those clothes are all gone now, yet, of all the things we went through together, that pile remains outstanding in my memory.

My mother did what everyone does eventually-she ran out of time. By the time she died, she had been sick on and off for over a decade, longer than that if you count the first time she had cancer in her teens. Her life was stained by struggle-divorce, financial stress, mental illness, a daughter who turned out to be nothing like what she had imagined.  For her, there was no space, no break from the terrifying reality of illness and fear. It occupied her, it literally lived inside her, and it seemed, from my vantage point, that every moment was full of the distraction brought on by anxiety and panic and punishment.

So on the bar mitzvah of her death, I’m thinking about my own joy-how I have deprived myself of it, assuming that there will be time to feel it later.  I forget that every second of the day, in spite of how scared I am, is still a second that I’m alive, and a moment closer to a time when I won’t be. It feels like a cliche, learning from my dead mother to let joy in , but when  it’s easy for me to forget what I have taught myself about happiness and self preservation, there it is-seemingly, at the center of  everything.

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2 thoughts on “year 13

  1. julie says:

    Thank you for writing this. For sharing it with us. I know what you mean, about how it feels like a cliche–life is so often a cliche.

    May your mother’s memory be a blessing (sounds like it already has been).

  2. Lily says:

    Rooting for you. I know this time of year is always tough.

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