58

Perhaps what is most pertinent is that I am measuring my mortality in years. Perhaps this is traced to the loss of my Mom when she was so young. At the time, everyone commented about how young she was. Gone too soon. 58. Horrible, awful thing Cancer is. Damn C word. 58.

I was drowning. Going through a nasty divorce (is there really any other type of divorce?), trying to keep my business afloat, as well as hers, caring for a 4-year old daughter who had to undergo two major surgeries That Year We Lost My Mom.

A Doctor at Sloan-Kettering mumbled something to me about, "being careful of warning signs" and such. I was in my mid-30's and filed his comment under To Think About Later.

It is Later. I am on my way to 55. Now, my mother's early death talks to me. It sits with me at night as the television hums its song of loneliness. It cuddles on my lap and waits to be petted and cared for, much like my attention-seeking dachshund. This thing To Think About Later buckles itself next to me in the passenger seat on long car rides and whispers in my ear as I run on the tread mill. 

Every time I am feeling under the weather, I hear that Doctor's mumbled words ring in my head. I look for signs. I imagine them. I dread them. I fear them. 

There is not a day that I do not review all my Mother missed. My brother's wedding and the births of his children. My daughter's Senior Prom and honors awards and graduation. My Dad's open heart surgery and difficult recovery. Her dance students becoming dance teachers and studio owners. The success of my studio. Life. She has missed the life that was hers to enjoy. 

People expected me to be a Bigger Mess than I was when she died. I thought I was, categorically, a huge mess. I have always thought, however, that I was incredibly lucky to have had thirty plus years with my Mom. She was my best friend and confidant, she was strong and loving, a provider and a caretaker. I had huge arguments with her and learned how to forgive and be forgiven because of her. She taught me to dance and taught me to teach dance. My mom was a beauty and oh so smart. She taught me it was okay to be both of those things. In the 1970's and early 80's, this was not always the case. 

My mother made me a Lady Who Lunches with friends and a woman who puts family first. Holidays were extravagant affairs with miles of tables laden with too much food, and card games to accompany dessert and coffee. I tell myself that most people never know their mothers as I did. They are not lucky enough to hold these memories close. Loss? Incredible. Lost? Always. Lucky? Strangely. 

I look at my almost-twenty-one-year-old daughter and wonder if I have lived enough to give her enough. Enough memories and love to get her through life if I was to leave it. Enough strength and wisdom to plow on when darkness and sadness overwhelm her. Enough knowledge of life that she can accept death. My death. Her mother's death. I wish I never wondered this, but I do. 

I wonder this because I have lived it. I live it. I will live it. Mortality looms for all. Life is more than wondering if and when death will greet us. I know this. I live and I love life. Still. 58. It is so young.