(Nostalgia alert. Menopausal maudlins a-go-go around here lately.)
I’ve been deeply nostalgic for the kids’ baby days as of late, and have been watching videos from years past. I recorded more than I thought I did. And captured more than I planned.
In one video, Anya, her Poppy, and I greeted Mimi as she returned home from the office for lunch one day. This Mimi, my mom, looks so different from the Mimi of today. Then she was…Mom. She looked the same as she had my entire life. Strong. Fit. Healthy. She could do anything, and did.
Shortly after that video was taken, Mom got sick. We thought it was a cold that she just couldn’t shake, until she almost died. She didn’t die, but she never fully recovered either. Pneumonia. Heart attack. MAC infection. All stemming from what were not normal age-related aches and pains but rheumatoid arthritis. Now she is pale, cachetic, tired, fragile, with an ever-present oxygen tube.
I miss my mom. I mean, yes, I still have her. We’re so, so lucky. I know that. But it’s different now. We’re on the “after” side of the RA diagnosis.
When I was pregnant with Anya, I made plans with Mom to do a breast cancer walk in honor of her mother, who died of breast cancer before I was born. Only Anya came by cesarean and I wasn’t up for walking that year. Next year, Mom said.
That walk will never happen now.
This year, my company is sponsoring us to participate in the St. Jude walk/run, so I signed Anya and myself up. If it goes well, maybe I’ll sign us up for a breast cancer walk: Daughter and granddaughter walking in place of mom and daughter.
I really wish I’d pushed harder for that mom/daughter walk, though. The problem is you think you have time.
Shortly after finishing this post, I read this one: It’s Later than You Think. Wiley was Anya’s age, so this hit really close to home. Don’t wait. Please don’t wait. You never know which chance will be your last.