Five Years

I didn't want to get out of bed today. There are multiple reasons for this; I'm still not feeling 100% after having a death flu that turned into an ear infection. It is rainy and gray. I didn't want to go to work. Underlying all of this, however, is that it is the fifth anniversary of pretty much the worst day of my life.

Five years is a long time. The world has changed, there are lots of things that have no reference to my mother. I've cycled through a whole new wardrobe. I had to give away the suit I wore at her funeral because it was too big. She would be thrilled at how little of my wardrobe is still black. There's a whole crop of television addictions and fantasy boyfriends I never had a chance to tell her about. My life plans are radically altered. But there are some things that don't change. Hearing a James Taylor, Carole King, or Billy Joel song still makes me melancholy. I feel homesick when I see rose bushes. While it happens far less frequently now, I still reflexively think of calling her whenever really good or really bad things happen.

And that is the rub. All the things she hasn't been and won't be a part of is the hardest bit. The good things in life, the happy moments or great opportunities are always a little bittersweet because she isn't here to share them. The bad things, the sad moments, the unfortunate blind sides in life are all a little worse because she is no longer just a phone call away.

I remember shortly after my mother died, my aunt telling me "Welcome to the Dead Mom's Club. It sucks." And it does. That is really all there is to say about it when you lose your best friend and confidant. You make do, and you move forward. You try to refrain from wallowing, because she would be irate if she thought you missing life because of her. But it's never the same.