Today marks four years since my mom passed away.
I’ve found that the spontaneous tears have mostly dried up—no more crying while making beds, strolling through the grocery store, or being caught off guard by a cancer center commercial. Yet, I still instinctively reach for the phone to share a laugh when something amusing happens. The house phone, specifically. It’s funny how few people I actually converse with on it these days, but even after 1,460 days, I’m not ready to part with it.
Each year, I’ve taken the opportunity to articulate the changes that have unfolded in my life since she’s been gone, often centering my reflections around my children—their growth, their evolving maturity (or lack thereof, hello teenage years), and their unknowingly steady presence in my rocky journey through midlife. It’s curious to ponder how they’d react if they knew just how powerful their support truly is.
This year, however, what weighs most heavily on my mind is the profound shift in my emotional landscape. My feelings and the things that touch me have transformed dramatically.
You know what frustrates me now? When friends roll their eyes and complain about their mothers’ little quirks or annoying habits. It’s infuriating to hear them grumble about obligatory dinners or doctor appointments, as if spending time with their moms is a chore. They have no clue what some of us would give for just one more day.
And what brings me joy these days? Strangely, I find solace in the fact that my mom passed away so young and so quickly. It’s a bittersweet realization I’ve come to terms with. She was only 69 when illness took her swiftly, within six months of her diagnosis. Before that, she was vibrant and stylish, with an infectious sense of humor that drew people in. Even when she was too weak to make it to the store, she’d circle items in the catalog for me to fetch—shoes and bags she never had the energy to wear, but needed to have.
I cherish the image of her in her prime, never knowing her as frail or weak. I won’t ever have to experience the heartache of helping her up stairs or visiting her in a nursing home. Instead, she’ll always be my glamorous, makeup-wearing, chic mom. That’s a memory I hold on to, and it brings me peace. I know I’m not alone in finding comfort in such a perspective after losing someone too soon.
As for what matters to me now? Well, it’s a lot less than before. My focus is firmly on my family—I work hard to keep us close because that’s what truly matters. Everything else? Not so much. I’ve learned to let go of grudges and the daily drama that once consumed me. I question, “What’s the worst that could happen?” and realize that trivial matters—like whether a kid doesn’t go to college or someone snubbed another on social media—don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.
What I care about now is simple. I wish my mom could see the wonderful people her grandkids are becoming. I wish she could admire the living room chairs I just spray-painted. I long for her opinion on how long my hair has gotten. I just miss her tremendously.
And when my youngest, sitting in the passenger seat, innocently says, “This song reminds me of Nanny!” that’s the heart of what truly matters to me.
This article was originally published on August 28, 2015.
For additional insightful resources, check out this authority on home insemination. If you’re looking for further support, this is an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, Lisa Thompson shares her journey of coping with her mother’s passing four years ago, discussing the emotional evolution she has experienced, the joys of cherishing memories, and the importance of family. With a focus on letting go of trivial matters, she emphasizes the happiness found in simple moments and the lasting impact of her mother’s vibrant spirit.