Forty-eight
There are the normal birthday milestones that we will all (hopefully) hurdle: a first birthday, sweet 16, turning 21, the big three-o, etc. And then there are the more personal ones that develop from our own journey.
I remember the year I realized that I’d been alive longer without my mother in my life than with her. She had passed away at the age of forty-eight after a short, brutal battle with cancer. There were many tears that year.
When I was younger, forty-eight seemed a lifetime away. Forty-eight is old! At forty-eight you might as well have one foot on that ice flow.* It should come as no surprise that I’m backtracking on that a wee bit now. And it has nothing to do with the fact that there’s a significant lack of ice flowing past San Francisco.
I’ve spent much of the last year coming to terms with the fact that I was approaching another significant milestone. Today, I am now the same age that my mother was when she died. I can’t even begin to express how angry and bereft I am at the thought that this was all the time that she had. Forty-eight is nothing.
My friends have been wonderful as I talked about this over the last year, working through my fear and anxiety. Thank you for listening.
* “Did Eskimos put their elderly on ice floes to die?” Short answer: Not really. Also, as a Canadian, I’m uncomfortable with the use of Eskimo. Shouldn’t it be “Inuit”?
