Thirty years ago today.
I remember it so very, very vividly.
Dad and I were walking back from the restaurant where we had dinner.
As usual, there was little talking but on that evening the silence was about Mom. We both knew that the end was coming. We had been sitting vigil for two weeks. We just could not talk about it.
But on the walk back, Dad started to run. I didn't ask, I just kept up with him.
When we got to her floor at Standford Medical, I held onto his arm. And as the head nurse came from around the counter at the nurse's station, his knees buckled. And I held on.
She was gone.
And I had two very, very conflicting feelings. Oh, no and Thank, God.
Mom died of ovarian cancer. A long, painful illness that, back then, no one knew how to fight. She had repeated surgeries, debilitating chemotherapy, and long hospitalizations. All she wanted was to go to Camp Nelson to die and the doctors said, "Let's try this.."
Mom was an old school nurse. If a doctor said something it was gospel. So she never saw Camp Nelson again.
I remember driving back to where we were staying and my dad asking me if I was ok. I said yes. At that time I was.
Over the last thirty years I have been ok and not ok with losing mom then.
Today, I am not so ok.