In a couple of days, it will be the 39th anniversary of my mother's death (mom #1, obviously not my mom who died last fall). She was 31 years old and left behind an 11-month-old and a 4-year-old. When I was growing up, all of my pity was reserved for myself: poor me, my mom died and my dad married an ogre; if my REAL mom were alive she would buy me Calvin Klein jeans; I'm sure if my mom had lived, we'd get along famously...I'm sure you can imagine the rest.
It was only after becoming a mother myself that I felt a huge well of sadness for my mother. Now my pity is all for her. Her own mother died when she was two, so she knew what it would be like for my brother and me. I remember when R turned four -- all I could think about was how much she needed me and that if I died, she wouldn't remember me. If I found out today that I was going to die, knowing that C would barely remember me would be the absolute worst part for me.
I think the anniversary of my mom's death combined with a comment a fellow blogger made (Isabelle) about thinking we will do all of the things we want after we retire, along wtih having several friends and relatives fighting cancer came together in my subconscious the other night to produce the most realistic dream (well, nightmare) that I've had in ages. I don't remember much about it except that I found a lump somewhere, went to the doctor, and was told I had a month to live. I can't even describe the towering rage I felt when he gave me the news. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs, "This is what I get for trying to escape the family curse of cancer! It didn't even do any good!" (In 2001, I had a bilateral mastectomy after finding out I had the BRCA1 gene) I felt such dark despair about leaving my girls.
I think it's definitely time to start DOING some of those "someday" things, so T and I are planning a trip to Disney World. I don't want to put it off and put it off until it's too late.
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