I always feel compelled to write when I miss my mom, so here I am.
Over the last few days, I read The Fault in Our Stars. It was okay (sorry, everyone), but I didn't love it. Regardless, I found myself thinking about cancer and the horrible things my mother and my family went through.
The second half of my freshman year was really, for the most part, pretty miserable. My mom was really sick, and school was my escape from watching her suffer. She gradually got worse and worse. She couldn't keep anything down, and she seemed to be in an eternal bad mood. I missed out on a lot of activities because I felt I needed to stay home with her. She didn't want to eat...or really do anything for that matter. There are a lot of days I wish I could forget, but one sticks out in my mind the most. It was an early summer evening, and my mom hadn't eaten all day. I knew she needed some nourishment, so I convinced her to let me make oatmeal. I made it with milk instead of water thinking she probably needed the calcium. When I presented her with the meal, she refused, claiming the milk would make her nauseous. Because of the medications she was on, she wasn't herself, and she threw a fit. In that moment, I felt as if our roles as mother and daughter had been reversed. I dropped the bowl and watched it crash to the counter. I think that's the day I realized just how sick she was. That was probably the day I realized I had already lost her. She died about two months later.
When I remember her on her worst days, I try to think of the things I loved about my mom. When she was herself, she would read every night before bed. Most of the time, she would fall asleep with her glasses on and an open book in her hands. In the summer, she religiously watered all of the flowers that surrounded our home. To say she had a green thumb would be an understatement. Each evening, she would sit outside and listen to the birds, the wind, the animals...she loved our house, but she loved our backyard even more. She loved Marlo (my dog...or best friend, whichever you prefer) and let him sleep on her bed even though my dad hated it. My momma always smelled good. I don't know what perfume she used, but she just smelled like Mom. I loved to watch her fingers on the piano, and I still love to watch people play the piano. It reminds me of her. Even though I couldn't stand Pat Metheny music when she was alive, I smile when I hear it now. I still have every song memorized. I always will.
The happy memories of my mom somehow outweigh the sad, cancer-filled ones. I can't wait to see her beautiful garden in Heaven.
This is what she wanted to be played at her funeral, and it certainly was a celebration of a beautiful life:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4lnEOa3PmQ&feature=youtu.be
