One of my most vivid memories of her is unfortunately not the happiest one. One that she made clear that she didn't want me to remember. I was ten years old. She was bedridden by this point, receiving hospice care at home. I was about to go to a sleepover party with a group of my friends. I packed up my sleeping bag, pillow, and a bag of my overnight things, all of which I was carrying as I went into my mom's room to kiss her goodbye before I left. She told me, "Go get my camera--I want to take a picture of how cute you look with all of your sleepover things!" So I retrieved her camera, put it in her frail, trembling hands, then posed for a picture. By that point in her illness, she had lost all of her hair, her eyebrows, her eyelashes, and all the color from her face. I didn't care. To me, she'd always be beautiful. I held out my hand for the camera. "Now it's my turn to take a picture of you!" I said. She got quiet. "No," she whispered. "I don't want you to remember me like this." Now isn't it ironic that this had to be my most vivid memory of her? The reason that memory stands out so much to me is because it was the first and only time she would ever admit to me that she was, in fact, dying. She and my dad had known for a few months that it was inevitable. The cancer was just too aggressive. But my mom didn't want us kids to know. She'd asked my dad not to say anything to us about it. Her intentions were pure...I suppose she didn't want us to be sad about it for any longer than we had to be. But my dad felt it was best for us to know so that we could try to emotionally prepare ourselves as much as possible. So, when my mom indicated that she didn't want me to remember her that way, I already knew what that meant. What impacted me with that statement though was that she herself was admitting that she didn't have much longer left to live. I don't have many memories left of her. I hate to admit that, but it's true. Most of my memories come from photographs I've seen and stories others have told me about her. I do have one other memory. I call it the "Napkin Wars". My dad could be a relentless tease, and a lot of that would be taken out on my mom at the dinner table--all in good fun, of course. My brothers and I could tell our mom felt picked on, so we always sided with her and defended her when dad decided to tease her about something. When she'd had enough of being teased, she would ball up her paper napkin and throw it at him. Of course, if it was OK that mom did it, it was OK for us to join in, and thus the "Napkin Wars" began. By the end, we were all laughing so hard that none of us could breathe. I don't dwell on memories from the past. I try to think of my childhood as little as possible, because it hurts too much to think of what could have been if she'd lived. The reality is that she didn't. And life goes on. I've survived, and done OK, even without her in my life. I'm sure there are dozens of things that would have been easier had she been here, but who ever said life was supposed to be easy?
