|Mom, January 3, 2013|
One year ago, today, I got a phone call.
A late night phone call.
One more in a long series of late night calls that began nine years ago, when my elderly parents moved back to New York City and into my care.
But this one was to be the last.
You never know it's the last.
Until it is.
4 am, I remember this one was.
Mom had fallen. Again.
I rushed to her side in the Long Island hospital her nursing home had sent her to; a cold, bleary ride in the pre-dawn quiet.
Another broken hip. A matched set. (I wrote a post about it.)
But this time my mother was older, frailer than the last time. This time my mother had already been through the ringer, and unbeknownst to anyone yet - but soon to be quite evident - she was also becoming septic from an undiagnosed infection.
A year ago today, my mother went into the hospital, and began the final, short sojourn of her life. She began dying.
I was by her side nearly the whole time.
I was with her when she passed, five days later, at 3:15 in the afternoon of January 17th.
I have been dreading the return of these dates, these days. January 12th through 17th.
They were excruciating to go through last year, every moment both drawing out and swiftly fleeting, galloping towards that end.
And when they are done, the wheel will turn; from first year to second year without my mother. It will be a different thing. And yet also more of the same.
I know everyone's parents die, eventually; that this is the natural order of things.
I know that ninety was a good run.
I know I was lucky to have had such a loving mother.
I know I was lucky to have had her for so long.
I miss her every day.