I didn’t want to wait until Mother’s Day

I miss my mother, May. She died 15 months ago, at almost 87. Funny thing is, we hadn’t had a warm, cuddly relationship for most of our lives. I was born nine months after my dad returned home from World War II. Mom hadn’t seen him for three years, so I don’t know why she was so anxious to bring another person into the picture, especially because she wasn’t especially motherly.

Mom was always proud of the fact that I was toilet trained at 10 months (I don’t think she’d have had it any other way. She didn’t have much tolerance for those who didn’t do things according to her expectations or rules.)

Mom once told me that if my father, my two sisters and I were all drowning, she’d save my dad first. I know she didn’t say it to upset me. It’s just the way she felt. Dad was her sun, moon, stars, heaven and earth.

A wonderful therapist helped me learn to accept mom, which was a great relief to me. As the years went on, I developed affection for her. Maybe even love.

Mom raised three wonderful daughters, so she obviously did something right. She had many friends and interests. She never complained, even when she had a stent put in her heart. She was over 80 at the time.

She didn’t expect me and my sisters to keep her entertained as she got older. She fell during the night in December 2008 and we found her the next morning on the floor near her bed, disoriented but with a blanket over her.

She had broken her hip and had surgery the next day. Two weeks later, she was dead.

Although I now know surgery was probably not the smartest choice for an 87-year-old, mom was mentally deteriorating and would never have been the same person, even without surgery.

That would not have sat well with her. With me, either. Besides, I know she was excited about being with dad again. She hadn’t seen him in over two decades. That was long enough.