Orphan on Vacation
I am an orphan. Mom passed away on Saturday. It wasn’t a shock. Diagnosed with Alzheimer’s 11 years ago, she’d been progressively losing bits of herself for over a decade. Still, the prospect of having nobody left from my family of origin changes my outlook. There’s no one with whom I can reminisce about the person I was before my firstborn developed her initial lifelong memories.
Oh, I do have some cousins that are older than my daughter. And one aunt—my mother’s age—remains. But having been raised as something of a nomad, these people really don’t know me that well. When we get together, we don’t say, “Remember that time when we…” and proceed to laugh about our wild escapades.
With my husband and parents gone, this kind of communing is limited to my children’s lifetimes. Very little that precedes them will come up in conversation again (unless I pull my father’s stunt of one-upmanship, by telling tales that begin with, “When I was your age…” These stories were meant to illustrate how easy young people have it, compared to the trials his generation had to endure. His emphatic ramblings generally caused eye-rolling by all listeners. Even the older ones).
So not only have I lost my mother, I’ve lost a big chunk of myself. But that is how life goes—until it doesn’t. When my life ends, at least my children will have each other. Well, I hope so.
But things don’t always go how we suppose. When my husband died at the ripe old age of 66, my mother felt awful. She kept saying, “It should have been me.” She felt guilty for outliving him. Because that’s just not how we expect things to unfold.
And that’s the point. While it’s normal for humans to have expectations, we should be careful not to get too glued to them. Stuff happens. Life can turn on a dime.
When I was visiting romantic Mackinac Island off the coast of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, I saw couples strolling down the main drag holding hands. That made me smile and reminisce about how my husband was keen on public displays of affection. He was proud of our love. And frequently chose to honor it in plain view.
But when I saw couples who were walking three feet apart in that paradise, almost as if they were avoiding each other, I wanted to insist that they hold hands. To shake them into understanding that happiness can be snatched away in an instant. To command them to revel in any affection they feel for each other.
But I didn’t. Instead, I took long walks on the shore, listening to the waves lapping at the rocky bank, talking to my late husband. He would have been holding me close, had he been beside me.
My husband died on February 13th. My Mom died on August 13th. I wish I could remember the date of my Dad’s death. If it was the 13th, I might allow my undeveloped sense of superstition to take hold. The 13th floor. Friday the 13th. And all of that.
But I can’t find Pop’s death certificate. So, I’ll just presume the two thirteenths to be a coincidence. And continue to try to appreciate life for what it appears to be—a brief encounter with creatures great and small. With the flora that happens to coexist with us at this particular moment. Much like a vacation, during which we can smile and hold hands and really appreciate this short time we have together.