rhubarb

This is always a hard one. But I try to do it every year because it's important. This woman is important.

Mother's Day without your mother is just really not the same. You hear it from me every year, and if you continue to follow this blog you'll probably hear it every year until you stop doing so. Even in the midst of celebrating my own boss mom-hood, it's hard to have a Mother's Day without your own.

Earlier this week, I cried. This is not surprising. It doesn't take much to make me cry. What is surprising is that I cried over rhubarb. Not because I'm sad that it's difficult to find in Sacramento. Not because I found it hilarious that I suspected what Rachael used in her crisp was actually chard. But for the very same reason that inspired my Aunt Phyllis to comment ... "memories of your mom."

Don't worry, Aunt Phyllis, you didn't make me cry. That dessert was made with those tears, long before you saw it. The fact, however, that it also reminds you of my mom is a testament to what an impact she has had on so many people. I take a whole lot of comfort in knowing that the things I remember about her are the things others do as well. So, thank you for that, Aunt Phyllis.

I distinctly remember a day in the TV room looking out over the lake. That day, I was sitting on the couch. The couch that we had had ever since I could remember. The couch I ended up inheriting after she was gone. She was sitting in the recliner talking on the phone to Dr. Olson, Ralph's cousin, who is a radiologist. He'd often helped us out by offering a second opinion. That day was no different. Except it was. It was the beginning of the end. The day where we were asked to start accepting that there wasn't anything left to do.

Shortly, thereafter, we moved a hospital bed into that room so she could always see the lake. There was no more Swedish death cleaning. We'd taken care of that with post-it notes identifying who got what. I still keep that post-it note taped to the bottom of the vase I was given. Any unfinished bucket-list items were going to have to remain that way.

Even though we had been dealing with this sickness for years, through high school, college, and graduate school, I still couldn't be prepared for what to do or say in those final days. We had gone from saying all the things that we were never going to be able to say to each other again, to just trying to make her, the person who I loved so much, who chose me to be her daughter, comfortable until it was time to go. That was the hardest. Knowing that her presence was as hard for her, as her absence would be for us. But that's the tipping point, right? The point where you know that letting go is not just the only option, but the best one as well. And when that equilibrium is attained, it's time.

Cerebrally, I know this. Emotionally, there are still no words to encompass how that loss feels. A place in your heart that never heals. A grief that becomes part of your life. At this point, I don't know what it would be like to not feel it. But it's a reminder. A reminder that a large part of why I feel so intensely, is because of the tremendous impact she had on my life. So while Mother's Day is never the same, it's a reminder that I was lucky enough to be chosen by the best one.