You were conceived. And as you grew from toddler to teen, you couldn’t conceive of a time when your mother would not be there. Of not being worried about, taken care of and nurtured by that loving presence.
You eventually flew the nest – but you knew that her unconditional love and support were still there, no matter what adventures and misadventures transpired in your young adulthood. You knew because she called you to tell you so.
As you aged, so did she – and her style of mothering changed. She still sent unexpected packages – a little something she ordered from one of her beloved catalogues. She still insisted on making dinner when you came to visit. She still baked banana bread, and expressed her opinions bluntly, and read the New York Times every day. But she was getting tired.
Then she got sick. She suffered. You became the worrier, the nurturer, the caretaker. Once she stopped reading, you knew it was a downhill slide. And the thing you couldn’t even conceive of happening, happened. She died.
She’s been gone for almost five weeks and the feelings ebb and flow every day. You cry but you're not heaving with sobs – that only happened twice. When you have moments of happiness you feel guilty. You question if you’re grieving “correctly” although you know it’s a ridiculous thing to ask. You’re wondering if you’re starting to get “better.” You’re wondering how long it will take to get there.