There is always that day that awaits us if we live a long life. That day when a parent passes on. Most of us, myself especially, take that inevitability and shove it down to a non-existential reality that will someday, someday become the day, the final day. Last Monday in the wee hours of the morning the day happened for me and although my mother’s health had taken a quick downward slide after she fell and broke her ribs at 97 years old, there was the hope that she would recover not accepting the reality that just like before she would rally. But this was indeed different. She was suffering, she was ready and my brother and I began to get ready as well. When she passed we felt relief for her suffering. We recited the trite saying that she is finally at peace. But what I feel afterwards is the waves of reality pressing against my heart. She can’t really be gone. This is a mistake and I can pick up the phone and call her. She will answer. We will chat about nothing and have a great phone visit. Death is a part of life, but I don’t like it. We are given a gift only to have it snatched away. At least her life was long you say, but the ageing process is not easy. Your world becomes small and little activities are now difficult. Watching a parent go through these stages brings home that this will also happen to me. And I don’t like it. Don’t like it at all.
In loving memory
Irene Isaacs
July 13, 1918-Nov. 2, 2015
