Thirty three years ago this morning my Mom lost her battle with cancer. It was before mamograms. She was 45. She found her cancer early and it was already a Stage 4. She had two radical mastectomies and yet it spread. She fought the good fight wanting to live long enough to see my brother and I graduate from high school. As it turned out she died one week into my brothers senior year and my sophmore year.
I was 15 and he was 17.
I used to think 45 was ancient. It's not. When I reached the age she was when she died, it was a turning point in my own life. I'm 48 now and celebrate every year I'm alive. I will never be one of those intolerant women who begrude having a birthday since it means they're a year older. To complain about age is a waste of time and energy. It should be a celebration!
They should be so lucky!
So, when this happens you grow up fast and make your own life early on. This is what my brother and I did. I guess we still are. I feel she would be proud of the lives we have made for ourselves and the people we share them with.
I feel her presence and her absence every day.
Does it get easier? I'm not sure. I'll let you know that when I figure it out myself.
Continue your self-exams and be dilligent.
But also, love every day you have, life is shorter than we think.
♥
Patricia