Aging

It’s been 33 years since my mother chose to leave her earthly life and move on to her eternal home.  The strange thing about grief is the way it never disappears but oozes its way into your soul and kind of seeps into every fiber, filling all the spaces.  It just becomes part of who you are.  Even after 33 years, I still think about my mom in one way or another almost every day.  Just little thoughts that filter in and out as part of my days.  The most common thoughts are questions I want to ask if she were here:  What did you do when …?  What did you think about…?   My questions creep around and hide in corners because there is no way to discover the answers.

Lately, I want to ask my mom questions about her body.  I feel a deep sense of loss that I am not able to watch my mom’s aging process.  I wonder how she would have handled the natural aches and pains that come with aging bones.  I am curious when she would have stopped dying her hair or if she would have ever had that ‘nose job’ she always talked about.  Would she have settled for a few extra pounds or kept fighting them off the way she did her whole life?

My childhood perception of my mother was not always very positive. After my sister was born, she was depressed and lonely.  She had a life-long struggle with weight management.  Some of my younger memories of my mother are wrapped up in feelings of embarrassment and I feel ashamed of the times when I wanted to hide her away from my friends, ill at ease with my mom’s physical appearance.

But I mostly have fun memories of my mom during her more active and fit years. When I was a teenager, she cajoled me to join her aerobics class.  While the 80’s style music blared, I watched my mom dance and pump her arms to the music.  I loved watching my mom play tennis at the country club with my dad and their friends.  She looked so pretty and cool in her white skirt and blue tennis shoes.  I wanted to be like her.  After a tennis match, my mom would lounge by the pool all afternoon in her bathing suit, sipping iced tea and laughing with her friends.

In her 40’s, she lost weight after going on a medical fast with her doctor.  She transformed into a beautiful, slim brunette with a radiant smile.  My mom didn’t like her Roman nose—which is ironic because I always thought it is one of the features that made her so stunning and elegant.

It was also during her 40’s that my mom’s health changed.  She suffered from undiagnosed pain in her hands and feet that she learned to live with quiet resignation. It wasn’t until she was 45 that she was finally diagnosed with an inoperable tumor in her spinal cord.

I never got to watch my mom travel down the road of aging. She took her life at 47. 

After her death, her family and friends would comment on the tragedy.  “Lydia was so young.  She died too soon.”  But in my 20-year-old mind, she wasn’t young.  She was my mom and always seemed ‘old’ to me.  It wasn’t until years later, as I entered my 40’s, that I really understood how young my mom was.  At 47 her black hair was void of any gray strands, and her olive-toned skin was tight and smooth. And if it weren’t for that brutal object that wrapped around her nerves, she was in the best shape of her life, active and full of dreams for her future.  The tumor aged her unnaturally; it diminished her ability to walk or carry herself with the grace that was her former self.  Her hands and feet curled unnaturally, and her eyes became dark and void of their sparkle.  

I often wonder what my mom would have looked like in her old age.  If she were alive, she would have celebrated her 81st birthday this September.  This past summer, my uncle—her brother-in-law—passed away, and we gathered for a family reunion.  I spent moments observing my mom’s three sisters.  I tried using my imagination to conjure up an image of how my aunts might reflect my mom in their old age.  But I was unable draw that picture.  My mom is etched in my memory as a young and beautiful 45-year-old, ready to embrace life and dreaming of happy adventures.

I often dream of lost moments to behold,

But sadly, can’t watch my mom grow old

Fate, unkind, took her away too soon

Leaving only memories to fill an empty room

But time, relentless, robs us of our desires,

Leaving behind unspoken words and open fires

The wrinkles of wisdom, the silver in her hair

A secret testament that’s lost forever

The dreams of sharing stories and secrets to hold

I can only imagine what will never be told

Though the path may be lonely, and the longing runs deep

Love transcends the boundaries of time and space

The image of a mother full of grace

Remains a cherished dream, I quietly embrace

Though I can’t watch her grow old, it's true

Her love forever lives on, like a guiding star

In the echoes of her laughter, the warmth on her face

She remains forever young, in a sacred, timeless place