"Trust me when I tell you, you never get too old to miss your mother."
— Rose Marie
At 94 years old, actress Rose Marie still missed her mother. I understand that feeling. All too well.
Two and a half years ago I lost my mother to complications from diabetes. My dad and I knew it was coming. After almost twenty years of surgeries, procedures, and adjusting to a life that was shrinking she was faced with the prospect of trying a surgery that had a one percent chance of success or going home. She chose to go home. "I'm done being poked, prodded, having needles stuck in me, parts being cut off, doctors, nurses, hospitals, machines, and procedures. I want to go home." And she did. She opted to cease all treatments and medications except for those that were necessary, daily insulin and medication to ease her pain. She chose dignity. And in the month and half that followed until she passed away, I got to spend some of the most intimate and loving time with her that I'd ever spent.
She was my Number One fan. She always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. When I was little something as simple as one of her chocolate chip cookies could make everything right again. A hug was always the perfect balm for whatever was wrong. Sometimes she pissed me off to no end. But there was, of course as there is with any parent, squabbles, disagreements, and arguments. I can remember typical teenager fights. I knew everything and she didn't know a damn thing. Sometimes she drove me crazy. Sometimes I wanted to be anywhere but around her. And I wouldn't trade any of that anything in the world. When people say they wish they had just five minutes more, just to sit and talk about anything at all, I know exactly what they mean. What I wouldn't give for just five minutes more.
I made a habit of calling my mom every morning without fail, asking her how her day started and talking for as long as she wanted to talk. I kept her last voice mail message on my phone. Until one day when I accidentally erased it. I was distraught. I literally fell to pieces that day. The one last "live" piece of her I could keep was gone. I have pictures and cards and letters she wrote to me as her health declined, but nothing could replace that voice mail message. Nothing. What I wouldn't give for a undo command on my phone and get that back.
There are days when I just don't know how I'm going to get through the day without being able to talk to my mom. Some days the sense of loss is so strong I can't breathe and I feel like I'm suffocating. I call it the "emotional crater." In my emotions where she used to be is now a huge crater. It just sits there waiting for me. And every now and then, like today, I come up on that crater and I have to figure a way around it. Yet I know the best way isn't around it, it's through it. And even though I can't bear the thought of it, I take a step forward into it and muddle my way through it.
Sometimes I'm scared to keep moving forward, afraid to get too far away from the pain. If I stop feeling the pain, I'll stop remembering her. And I never, ever want to forget the wonderful lady that was my mom. So when Rose Marie says you're never too old to miss your mom, I say thank goodness. I never, ever want to stop missing my mom.
Two and a half years ago I lost my mother to complications from diabetes. My dad and I knew it was coming. After almost twenty years of surgeries, procedures, and adjusting to a life that was shrinking she was faced with the prospect of trying a surgery that had a one percent chance of success or going home. She chose to go home. "I'm done being poked, prodded, having needles stuck in me, parts being cut off, doctors, nurses, hospitals, machines, and procedures. I want to go home." And she did. She opted to cease all treatments and medications except for those that were necessary, daily insulin and medication to ease her pain. She chose dignity. And in the month and half that followed until she passed away, I got to spend some of the most intimate and loving time with her that I'd ever spent.
She was my Number One fan. She always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. When I was little something as simple as one of her chocolate chip cookies could make everything right again. A hug was always the perfect balm for whatever was wrong. Sometimes she pissed me off to no end. But there was, of course as there is with any parent, squabbles, disagreements, and arguments. I can remember typical teenager fights. I knew everything and she didn't know a damn thing. Sometimes she drove me crazy. Sometimes I wanted to be anywhere but around her. And I wouldn't trade any of that anything in the world. When people say they wish they had just five minutes more, just to sit and talk about anything at all, I know exactly what they mean. What I wouldn't give for just five minutes more.
I made a habit of calling my mom every morning without fail, asking her how her day started and talking for as long as she wanted to talk. I kept her last voice mail message on my phone. Until one day when I accidentally erased it. I was distraught. I literally fell to pieces that day. The one last "live" piece of her I could keep was gone. I have pictures and cards and letters she wrote to me as her health declined, but nothing could replace that voice mail message. Nothing. What I wouldn't give for a undo command on my phone and get that back.
There are days when I just don't know how I'm going to get through the day without being able to talk to my mom. Some days the sense of loss is so strong I can't breathe and I feel like I'm suffocating. I call it the "emotional crater." In my emotions where she used to be is now a huge crater. It just sits there waiting for me. And every now and then, like today, I come up on that crater and I have to figure a way around it. Yet I know the best way isn't around it, it's through it. And even though I can't bear the thought of it, I take a step forward into it and muddle my way through it.
Sometimes I'm scared to keep moving forward, afraid to get too far away from the pain. If I stop feeling the pain, I'll stop remembering her. And I never, ever want to forget the wonderful lady that was my mom. So when Rose Marie says you're never too old to miss your mom, I say thank goodness. I never, ever want to stop missing my mom.
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