When my mom came home from the hospital the last time, the doctors told us she would most likely have a burst of energy for a bit right before the body started to shut down. She did. We had almost 2
My birthday was on a Sunday that year. We had dinner and had the family & some friends over for cake. We sat next to each other, we shared cake and coffee (tea for me!) and had a few laughs. It was the first time in my life that I received a birthday card filled out by my dad. It was also the last birthday card I would ever get signed "love, mom & dad". I had no idea that that day would be the last day I would be able to have real conversation with my mother.
The very next day she was like a completely different person. She was lethargic, unable to move on her own, her speech was unrecognizable... I think it was a combination of the disease and the morphine, but the difference was astounding. For the next two weeks we watched her deteriorate. She became a shell of her former self. All the life in her, her beautiful spirit, just faded away.
I like to think that she held on to that energy just to celebrate with me one last time, and I am so grateful for that. The flip side of that is that now my birthday will always be about "the last time". The last time we sat at our table together, the last time we ate together, the last time we really talked, my last birthday together... and I know I shouldn't let my mind wander there, that it's not what mom would want; and yet I can't help myself. I can't help but imagine what the last 15 birthdays would have been like if she had been here to celebrate them with me. I can't help but feel that I hate December and everything it stands for. I can't help but wish I could bring her back.
That's my pity party for today...
Hopefully tomorrow will be better.