For a year I have been counting down the days until my oldest goes to college. And not in the way you might think. This is the last summer we have before he turns 18. The last Christmas we will have while he is still living at home.The last family vacation while he is mine. I try to joke about it, “This is the last Friday in a July that you’ll be living under my roof before you graduate!”
But I’m only half joking. I am not ready for this stage of his life to be over. And what I really mean by that is that I am not ready for this stage of MY life to be over.
He is my firstborn. I have spent more time with this human than probably any other person on Earth. He is my heart and soul and life and happiness and anxiety and worry and pride and annoyance and frustration and everything in between. And his leaving is not just a rite of passage for him, but for me as well.
To all the young moms out there: Remember when you cried on your child’s first day of kindergarten? You ain’t seen nothing yet.
I wonder, were my parents this emotional when I left for school? I have no memories of them even dropping me off, although I’m sure they did. I have ZERO memories of my mom crying or even visiting me at school. I am quite sure she drove home and didn’t think twice about whether or not I was scared or sad or going to make friends or be lonely. I know FOR SURE she did not add Life 360 to her phone or order the blue bags from IKEA or get overwhelmed and panicked from following multiple parent groups on Facebook. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only time she called to check in on me freshman year was to ask me why I got a D in Statistics.
I’m not just saying goodbye to him. I’m saying goodbye to a season of my life I won’t ever get to experience again. And I have tried to savor all the days lately, even the bad ones, because at least he was still MINE. But still, this day came faster than I wanted it to.
And right now, I can barely breathe.
Raising my kids has been a joy. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, it can be unrewarding and thankless at times. But spending time with them has been an 18-year journey (so far) that has fulfilled me in ways that I didn’t know existed before I had kids. It took many years to mentally adjust to being a “stay-at-home” mom. Accepting parenting as my job, and not being embarrassed or resentful or feeling like I wasn’t using my degree was difficult. But now that I am nearing the end of this stage, I can’t believe how I am going to miss it. My house has been full of fun and noise and laughter and teenagers, along with dirty dishes and stinky soccer cleats and backpacks on the floor that for some reason just can’t make it the extra four inches into their cubbies.
I am going to miss having a house full of high school boys making noise in my basement. I am going to miss the shouting coming from his bedroom while he’s playing video games. I am going to miss someone as competitive as I am when we play board games during dinner. I am even going to miss charges showing up on my Target app and Starbucks app for Doritos and Iced Mochas. And just who is going to be there to explain to me what’s happening in all the Marvel movies when we go to the theater?
I barely remember the hard days. I mean, there are STILL hard days, but I’m sure someday I will forget these too. I just know that lately, I have ached for a do-over. Not to change anything, although I’m sure I would if given a chance. (Don’t get mad so quickly, don’t argue with them all the time, let things go more often). But I want a do-over just so I can experience it again. I want to relive the days when we would go to the library and the toy store and end our day getting ice cream. I want to go back to the days when he was attached to me and wanted to play trains all day. I want more zoo visits and mom-and-tot classes at the park district. The days when my whole life was him and his whole life was me. Why does it feel like I wasn’t paying enough attention all those years?
Today my firstborn goes to college. And he is ready in every way.
I’m just not sure I am.
First day of Kindergarten and first day of Senior year
And Boston. And England. And dainty little fingers. And coral lipstick.
She is my only female cousin on my mom’s side and she is 12 years older than me. Which makes her 65.
And about a month ago she asked me to write a tribute to her for her memorial service. Actually, what she really said was “I’m working on my memorial service (what, you think I wouldn’t try to control that?) and I’d like you to do one of your funny/spot on tributes and read it.”
So here we are.
Truthfully, I had already started writing it.
Two years ago she was diagnosed with ALS. And like the disease itself, her timeline is unpredictable. She is declining. I’m going to see her in a few weeks knowing this is probably the last time I will see her. And it’s another important person I am losing. Along with my mother, her mother, my sister, my father, and now her, my surrogate sister. And at this point, it’s beginning to feel as though while the branches of my tree of life might be growing, the roots are being yanked out of the ground one by one. With nothing to hold it stable, won’t the tree eventually just fall over?
If you know her well, you know she has had more tragedy and life shake-ups than most people. If you don’t know her, well, those stories are hers to tell, but to say she has moved through them and come to a place of grace and gratefulness is an understatement.
The truth is, I used to be scared of her. Let’s just say in her early years I don’t think you would have described her as easy going. She had a bit of an edge. Besides, twelve years is a wide age gap when you are growing up. By the time I was in Jr. High she was already living her adult life in Boston. She had moved there to be a journalist and had re-named herself “Cate” when NO ONE was Cate with a “C.” Especially not a Greek girl whose extended family could not understand why she would do this and did we have to call her Cate because she will always be Cathy to us and what the heck we will never get used to Cate.
Side Note: At this point she went rogue. Ok, not really. But as the memories start flooding back to me while I write this, I realize that she really tested the limits of our judgmental conservative, Midwestern, Greek-Orthodox family. First, she had a boyfriend that SHE WAS LIVING WITH. I mean, this was such a scandal at the time that I am nervous putting it in print right now 35 years later. I remember the phone calls between my mother and aunt discussing this unheard-of development. (NOBODY TELL YIAYIA!) Never mind she was in her 30’s with a full-time job half-way across the country. Thank goodness she married the guy. But then there was the non-denominational wedding (hand-wringing) with a lady minister (Kyrie Eleison) where no, they did not read about the Wedding at Cana but instead read from THE VELVETEEN RABBIT (“‘What is real?’ said the rabbit,” the poor bridesmaid choked out through tears).
But the joke was on them. No, it did not turn out to be the happily ever after my mom and aunt had apparently hoped for her, with the Greek husband who did not cook or clean or watch the kids but still made all the decisions. Instead, she found herself an ideal partner. And I mean that. I know very few marriages where the two people appreciate each other strengths and quirks as much as those two do. After 32 years of marriage they still not only love each other, but they like each other too.
But I digress.
We saw her maybe once a year. As far as I was concerned she was not my peer, she was an ADULT. I mean, she called our Aunt Susan “Susan.” By her first name! She didn’t seem to share the family silliness the rest of us shared. (In truth, she has a GREAT sense of humor and when I have the occasional oddball observation or catty comment I know she will laugh without judgement.) It was just hard for me to recognize this as a 12-year-old. I could not relate to this sophisticated cousin I barely knew.
Side Note: We are actually similar in many ways, but I didn’t figure that out until much later. She is smart and sarcastic, and sensitive and funny and a great writer (ok, fine, maybe that one is a stretch for me). She is opinionated and isn’t afraid to go against the grain and say what she believes, regardless of how popular her viewpoint is. She excels at sarcasm and wit. I realize now that I am an adult that she gets me in a way few people do. She was around when I was a very difficult child for my mother. And I think she was there to maybe even give some advice to my mom. Former pain-in-the-ass kids understand current ones better than most.
But then I moved to Boston for grad school. I was 24 and she was 36. We were finally at a point in our lives where age was not a deterrent to friendship. Yes, she was married with a toddler, but we were both adults. I would visit her downtown at her job when I was on campus, and then on the weekends at her house in the suburbs to either babysit or do my laundry, usually both.
My two years in Boston were both the darkest and happiest time of my life. It was a significant period for me and was crucial to who I am today. There were lots of stressors and little support and I was far from home. The fact that Cate and my sister Melissa and I were all living on the East Coast created a forever bond between us.
She is the one I call when I’m not sure if I’m using a semi-colon right (I’m not; like, ever). She is the one who texted me after I wrote a blog on grammar to tell me my grammar is ok but my punctuation could use some help. She is the one who when I was going through a bit of a depression informed me of the not-so-uplifting news that studies say happiness is a bell curve and we are happiest in our 20’s and 60’s (Gee, thanks. That’s promising.)
She is the one known for her creative and thoughtful, often handmade gifts. She is also known for starting said creative and thoughtful, often handmade gifts, and getting them to you one, two, three months (or years) after the event. (This is actually a genetic family trait so I’m not going to fault her on this one.)
She is the one who fan-girled with me at Copley Place in 1994 when Olympic speed skater Dan Jansen was there signing autographs. We waited in a long line so we could have him sign our newly purchased Olympic-themed Swatch watches. She was cool as a cucumber while I said something ridiculous and then bolted.
She is the one who drove over an hour in a snowstorm when I called my sister desperate with grief after my mom died. It was the Nor’easter of 1994 but Cate showed up at my door to take care of me.
She is the one who I think of when I hear Billy Joel, James Taylor, Carole King and Carly Simon.
I have watched more family members nearing the end of their life than I care to remember. This one feels different. There is not a desperate struggle through the next treatment. A blind hope for a miracle. A positive attitude to fight the good fight. I only see an even-keeled acceptance. A serenity that I admire. A gradual decline coupled with increasing support from family and friends. Adjustments have been made to keep her mobile, communicative, and comfortable. I am sure she has her days, but I sure don’t see them. I asked her the other day if she was scared. “No,” she said. “Sad.”
Me too.
***This essay was written before my dear cousin passed away on August 4th, 2022, hence the use of present tense. When she asked me to write this tribute to her, she shared that she hoped she would be able to read it someday. I did, in fact, sent it to her several weeks before she died. I read an edited version for the actual memorial service, but this is the original version. I will miss her terribly. ***
The Pictured Rocks are spectacular but can be dangerous to the careless hiker. Fifteen miles of the North Country Trail are atop 50-200 foot high cliffs. Cliff tops are covered with loose sand and gravel–National Park Service website
Recently my family and I took a road trip around Lake Michigan. We love road trips and I had always wanted to visit Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore and Tahquamenon Falls. The plan was to drive up through Wisconsin with an overnight in Marquette and spend the next day touring the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
Now, we have a long-running joke in our family. Ted and my kids think it’s hilarious that I consider myself “outdoorsy.” This irritates me to no end, as I’d venture that I’m much more outdoorsy than they’d like to believe. I could spend a paragraph detailing the many activities that I like to do outdoors but that would be boring. I could also list all the ways Ted is indoorsy, which I could make very funny and not boring, but that isn’t the point of the story. The point I am trying to make is just because I like air conditioning and I prefer hotels to camping does not mean I don’t like nature.
This leads me to our very ambitious National Park Adventure. Yes, this suburban Greek family who usually works their vacation spots around the nearest Starbucks and Culver’s was going to spend a few days in the forests and hills of the Upper Peninsula. Without Wi-Fi.
I had done a lot of research and found some short hikes we could enjoy during our trip across the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Pictured Rocks is 42 miles long with 15 miles of cliffs. My plan was to make our way through the length of the park, stopping at a number of lookout points including waterfalls, cliff overlooks, sand dunes, and lighthouses. We only had a day to get through quite a few scenic spots while still assuring we could get to Sault Ste. Marie by nightfall. A big day was planned.
I noticed on the map that each stop had a short walk to the actual site. It seemed like a perfect day of exploring. We would “hike” to the photo spot, take our requisite pictures, and move on. This would certainly add up to several miles by the end of the day.
Except that wasn’t really the “hiking” trip I had sold to my family. By the time we got to the second stop, Teddy was asking when we were going to hike. Before I could answer, he noticed the signpost reading that the next scenic stop, Miners Castle, was only 4.9 miles away.
Now let me stop right here. Five miles is no easy trek. Most people who are not regular hikers who are in their 50s and possibly have a few extra pounds on them might balk at this. But also most people who have promised a hiking adventure and are a little bit scared of their kids and also have a little pride might NOT balk at this. So there we were.
I tried to warn them.
Teddy assured me he would be fine. After all, he reminded me, he could run about three miles in half an hour. Teddy, who is 17 and plays soccer and does CrossFit. I was not worried about Teddy. I was worried about Ted, who is 54 and does not play soccer or do CrossFit. I wasn’t sure he could make 4.9 miles on a moving walkway let alone on rugged terrain in the wilderness. Let me remind you of the description on the website: The Pictured Rocks are spectacular but can be dangerous to the careless hiker. Fifteen miles of the North Country Trail are atop 50-200 foot high cliffs. Cliff tops are covered with loose sand and gravel.
The idea of 4.9 miles didn’t scare me. The idea of 9.8 miles did. No one seemed to be considering that we had to get back as well. It was already 12:30 in the afternoon. Once we started hiking it would be at least three hours until we got back. Never mind the fact we wouldn’t be able to eat until we got back because we didn’t have a backpack big enough to carry four Jimmy Johns Number 4s and four bags of Salt and Vinegar chips and certainly nothing to keep the sandwiches cold and the chips unharmed.
Side note: This was actually my thought process as I was trying to decide if we should make the trek. Now that it’s over and I know the actual conditions and time it took, it’s all I can do to not laugh/cry with shock at our complete and utter naiveté in undertaking this excursion.
But even after discussing the complications that could arise, we were all game to try. I think I can say we had passed the point of “outdoorsy” by that point.
I cannot oversell the stupidity of this decision. Almost immediately, the path sloped upward and we began climbing the 200-foot high mountain in front of us. At certain parts there were steps made from wooden planks, however, even having stairs as a crutch, climbing 200 of them was no easy feat for out-of-shape suburbanites. The ground was covered in tree roots and underbrush and you had to keep your head down the entire time to make sure you wouldn’t fall or trip on anything. This quiet focus allowed for a lot of internal musings, the result being that soon into the journey I began to lose any rationale I had started with.
Is it possible there are bears in this forest? Of course there are. How could there not be? I don’t remember what to do when you encounter a bear. Do you back away from bears and avoid eye contact or are they the ones you run toward screaming and make yourself look bigger? Why have I been spending all this time watching TikTok videos of dogs doing adorable things when I could have been watching videos of how to repel bears? Wait. I actually think they make bear repellent. Is it a spray or a horn? How could I be so concerned about my Turkey Tom with cucumbers and not even think about bear repellant?
It went on and on.
Panic had set in. Honestly, I was not even sure that in this state I would save my children had we come across a bear right then. (There was that time I saw a mouse in the kitchen when my kids were toddlers and I ran screaming for my life into the next room and jumped on a desk leaving them to fend for themselves.) I could not guarantee any maternal instincts would kick in.
Once I started thinking about the bears there was no end to my imagination. What about snakes? Of course there would be snakes in a forest filled with trees and creeks. What about coyotes? Foxes? I was used to these back in Downers Grove, but usually in a neighborhood where I was close to other homes where I could scream for help. There was no one around here. And if I DID scream, wouldn’t that just help the bears locate me faster? This insanity elevated until I truly started thinking that I might run into a bobcat or mountain lion. Now I know I tend to exaggerate, but if you have ever been in a situation where fear takes hold of you and your imagination kicks in, you will understand where I was right then. At the time, all of these thoughts seemed very reasonable to me.
Suddenly a calm came over me as I realized that old joke, “You only have to run faster than the slowest person,” and I knew I would be safe. I would miss Ted, but we would manage on our own somehow.
Sometime around this point, Teddy announced we were about a third of the way there. We had been walking for about an hour and twenty minutes. ONE-THIRD OF THE WAY THERE. This hour and twenty minutes felt more like 3 hours in dog time or mountain lion time or 50-year-old-walking-over-tree-roots time.
Ted and I looked at each other with concern. Not only concern that we would not make it for two more hours, but concern that our kids would be mad at us if we made them turn around. This may sound ridiculous, but if you have teenagers you know they can be moody and change on a dime. As parents, there are times when you will play Rock/Paper/Scissors to avoid difficult conversations, or even non-difficult conversations, or let’s face it, sometimes even ANY conversations. Oh yeah, did I mention that Ted had already “twisted his knee,” “stubbed his toe,” and broken a shoe? So we were not in good shape.
This is when Ted suggested getting a Uber for the way back. Let me remind you that we were in the Upper Peninsula in the Hiawatha National Forest without Wi-Fi. But sure, calling an Uber was going to be our solution. The closest we were going to get to an Uber was hoping another tourist family had room in their car and would drive us back and not murder us on the way.
Suddenly, we came upon two women in their mid-30s coming from the opposite direction. Based on their hiking shoes and travel backpacks they were experienced hikers. (So far, you may have been imagining a bustling path filled with periodic mile-markers and tourists exchanging pleasantries. You would be wrong. For one and a half hours we did not see one sign or one person. They were the first.)
“People!” I shouted, as if I were Tom Hanks in Castaway and had been shipwrecked for years. “We haven’t seen anyone this whole time!” They said hello and stopped to get a drink of water from their earth-friendly water filtration bottles. (It is possible that this was when I slowly and inconspicuously shifted my plastic Venti Strawberry Refresher cup behind my back.)
“How far have you guys been walking?” I asked.
“Oh, for like 35 miles,” one said with a wave of her hand, graciously trying to downplay and not embarrass me.
“We are headed to Miners Castle, do you know how much farther that is?”
“Oh yeah, you’re about halfway there,” she answered. “But there isn’t water there. Or bathrooms. And I don’t know how hard the terrain has been so far, but it’s really bad the rest of the way. Lots of mud.”
I got the distinct impression these women did not think we could make it the rest of the way. I don’t know if it was my Starbucks cup, fashion backpack, or Burberry sunglasses that gave it away, but something screamed suburban mom to her. Dare I say, something screamed “indoorsy” about us.
Whatever. We could make this trip as easily as they could with their fancy camping gear and environmentally safe water bottles.
And then one of them mentioned they had seen a bear.
Yep, we were turning back. Those women were right about us after all.
I made some quick mental calculations: By the time we reached our destination, snapped a picture and returned, we would not get back to our car until close to 7 pm if we were lucky. (Providing we couldn’t find the line of Ubers Ted was counting on.) At least we would save time not being able to go to the bathroom or drink any water. Who knows what time it would get dark in these thick woods. Who knows how many creepy animals would come out then. Who knows how many twigs Ted would stumble over. We could NOT carry Ted through the woods if he became immobile. Our only other option would be to hitchhike and probably end up in the back of a local’s pick-up truck nestled among his deer carcasses.
After they moved on, Ted and I made the executive decision we needed to turn back. We broke the news to the kids. Not surprisingly, the kids were furious we were giving up on the promised hike. Teddy stomped off yelling, “I just once wanted to do something cool! We are not a hiking family! We are the LAZY FAMILY!!”.
Yes, yes we are. We are also the ALIVE family I’d like to mention.
It took us another hour and a half to get back, and by then we were all talking again. We ate our sandwiches and drove to Miners Castle. It was gorgeous and a great spot for pictures. We saw a waterfall, a sandy beach, and the beautiful rock formation jutting out into the lake.
I don’t remember how or why it started, but at some point in my youth, my dad decided to compose a chant about himself. Even more hilarious is that my cousins and I (at this point we were nine girls; honestly, I can’t see a group of boys doing this) would spontaneously cheer these words for him at family functions for no apparent reason.
But I have a feeling my dad was used to getting his way from the beginning. In this picture that is over 60 years old, his handsomeness is still timeless. Your eyes go directly to him; smack in the middle, staring right at the camera. And although it isn’t politically correct to say, he looks pretty badass with that cigarette hanging out of his mouth surrounded by a bunch of girls. You can hardly blame my mom for falling for him at only 14 years old.
Side note:
My Thea Cassie, who is my dad’s oldest sister, told me this weekend that not only is my dad just 16 years old in this picture (believe me, I questioned this and tried to do the math working backwards from marriage and the Air Force and other milestones, but, I came to the conclusion that A) I think she may be right and B) Don’t argue with your 88-year-old aunt)…but that this was a CHURCH event. Which frankly, is more believable than the age part. So basically, my 16-year-old dad who looks about 25 in this picture is smoking and drinking at a church party. Which sounds about right for him.
Last Tuesday marked 19 years that he has been gone. Sunday was Father’s Day. I’ve spent a lot of time this past week thinking about him. And here’s the thing: When someone close to you dies, I mean really close to you, your memories aren’t about significant events or holidays. The things you go back to are the everyday minutiae; the simple details that make a person who they are.
For example:
During family vacations, meals weren’t planned around activities, activities were planned around meals. Before we even finished breakfast Dad would invariably ask, “Okay, gang, where are we going for lunch?” The in-between was inconsequential.
Every Sunday morning on our way to church we were forced to suffer through “Breakfast with Sinatra,” a radio program that started at 8am. Much to our dismay, it went until noon; meaning often we would catch the tail end of the show on the way HOME from church, too.
He only smoked Kent cigarettes. And boy did he smoke them.
He and one of his friends used to go to the track together all the time and bet on the horses. They invited me to go with them once, and we sat in the fancy seats and got waited on while we watched the races. It wasn’t until later that I found out they only took me so I could claim their big win from the day before and they wouldn’t have to pay the taxes.
He LOVED the soundtrack to The Bodyguard. Much to our annoyance, he would blast Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” on the CD player all the time.
He may have been the funniest man on the planet. It was a major win to get him to laugh at anything other than his own jokes. And believe me, I tried. Once, I took wallet-sized copies of my sorority composite picture and put them in random places in his bedroom. My sister and I were hysterical as we put one in his pajama pocket (oh yes, he wore old-timey men’s pajamas that were a matching set complete with front breast pocket), one on his pillow, one on the bathroom mirror. Nothing. Not. One. Single. Word. He would not give me the satisfaction of a laugh. In fact, this would have been one of the times where he would have casually taken the picture off of his pillow straight-faced and said, “I got four kids and none of them’s normal.”
He drank scotch on the rocks. And it had to be J&B. Once he requested it at a new local restaurant that had just opened. They didn’t have it, but the owner remembered and the next time we went in it had been stocked just for him.
He loved catalog shopping. I’d hate to think what would have happened if the internet or Amazon was around before he died. He would buy random stuff all the time: Native American decorative plates, stamp collections, themed chess sets. And his favorite purchase: 2-for-1 twill chinos. They were $6. Because you don’t forget when your dad buys (and wears) six-dollar pants from a catalog.
He was obsessed with celebrity height. You couldn’t get through a television shown without him making some comment about the height of the leading man. “You know, Sal,” he’d say with disdain, “Mel Gibson is only 5’6”.
I’ll end the way he liked to end things, whether it was a party or a vacation or even the close of a long day, by borrowing his signature words:
My aunt and my mom were best friends. I assume they still are best friends. Just best friends Somewhere Else. With those two it’s a real toss-up on where they could be. I think I probably was introduced to the concepts of “gossip” and “complaining” from them. This is not a criticism. This is a Fact. This is a Sister Thing. If you have a sister, you know. And if you are saying to yourself right now “My sister and I don’t gossip or complain at all” then you are either lying or adopted. And you are missing out. Because this is what sisters are for.
My Aunt Mary lived two hours away in the great city of Toledo. We called her Thea Mimi because Thea is “Aunt” in Greek and “Mimi” was what my uncle called her when he was little, and I guess it just stuck. When she came to visit for the day it was a real treat. I remember being so excited to see her car in the driveway. She was the Cool Aunt. She would never show up empty-handed. She started me and my sisters each on a collection of miniature ceramic animals. I still cherish mine. My mom, on the other hand, did not do Fun-Gifts-for-No-Reason. When we would visit Thea Mimi for a couple of days she would take us for ice cream at Zipz, a place shaped like an igloo where you could make your own sundae. My mom bought vanilla no- brand ice cream from Kroger. Thea Mimi fed so many wildlife creatures they were comfortable coming up to her back-patio door asking for food. It was like something out of a Disney movie over there. The closest we got to wildlife coming up to our door was one summer when a raccoon was stuck between our trash compactor and kitchen cabinet. She belonged to The Toledo Club and was on the board of the Toledo Art Museum. My mom played a monthly pinochle game with the neighborhood ladies.
Side Note:
Before one of my relatives comments that my mom was great and awesome and all the things I already know but am ignoring and not writing about in this blog in the name of HUMOR, I will say that my aunt had only had one child, my cousin Cate, who was older than us and already away at college by the time I was 6, so she had time to spoil us. My mom had three daughters plus one First-Male-Grandchild-of-a-Greek-Family-Named-After-the-Grandfather-so-let’s-have-a-200-person-Christening-for-him-at-a-Banquet-Hall-with-a-Band, so she had her hands full. (No, I’m not bitter. And yes, that’s for another blog entry someday.) So, she was busy and overwhelmed and didn’t have time for ceramic animals, woodland creatures, or ice cream trips. I do remember us eating at Kmart’s diner often, though.
But even at that age, it wasn’t the presents that I looked forward to the most. It was just her being there. Everything was more fun with her around. I couldn’t even tell you why. Or maybe I could. She had funny stories. She included us kids in the conversation. She always carried around a tiny golden box filled with her teeny tiny saccharin tablets. She had small delicate hands. She laughed a lot. And as I’m writing this I am realizing she was much more affectionate than my mom was. My mom was not much of a hugger, but my aunt would envelope you into her arms and you felt really loved.
WARNING: HERE IS WHERE MY STORY STOPS BEING FUNNY SO STOP READING IF YOU AREN’T IN THE MOOD FOR SERIOUS TALK.
She and my mom died one month apart. If the internet was around then I’m sure their story would go viral as it was a strange series of events that seemed more divine than coincidental. Neither one of them knew that the other died. That is a story in and of itself, but for another time. My faith and my strong belief in sisterhood tell me it would have been hard for either one of them to survive without the other.
What happens when your mom dies a month before your treasured aunt, is that you don’t really get to grieve that second important person. The first grief is so overwhelming that you just bury the second one along with it. Then one day you start writing a blog entry about Mother’s Day and your own mother and then her sister and then sisters and death and everything in between and you realize what started out as one thing has ended up being something very different. I am starting to learn that this is what happens when you begin to write. I did not intend to write about Thea Mimi. But now I realize that this turned into a way for me to finally grieve for her after so many years.
Mother’s Day came and went yesterday. Tomorrow is Thea Mimi’s birthday. Friday is my mom’s. Every year this week creeps up on me. This has been a hard last few days. I don’t know when I will fully embrace this day as my own and not think about what I have lost as a daughter and sister rather than what I have gained as a mother. I grieve for my mom. I grieve for my aunt. I grieve for my sister.
***I realized while searching that there aren’t enough pictures of my Thea Mimi. Probably because she was the family photographer. She was an amateur, but she was good at it. I love that she is holding her camera here, as if someone caught her out from behind the lens, smiling her ever-present smile.***
Never a Dulles Moment 