I’ve held off writing this letter for as long as I possibly could, and maybe that’s because once the last word is on the page, it means reality will have to set in. It’s a reality I had always thought of as happening in the distant future. Unfortunately, that distant future came to roost sooner than expected.
In early January, at the age of 64, my mother lost her courageous fight with a rare and aggressive bile duct cancer, Cholangiocarcinoma. Just eight short months after being diagnosed, she was gone. As others were ringing in the New Year with cheers and champagne, mine was spent caring for our feverish infant daughter and holding back tears as I video chatted with family in Florida. They gathered in my mother’s hospice room for one last New Year’s celebration. She was tired, but still flashed that 100-watt smile as she tried on wigs and hats while the grandkids selected music and twirled around. She wasn’t able to leave the bed to dance with them, but she shimmied her shoulders to the beat. If I closed my eyes and just listened, I could almost believe it was like old times.
I recently wrote about my pursuit to “be brave, not perfect”, as I consider those words now I don’t think anyone personified that mantra more than my mother. She would have never believed it of herself, but she was one of the bravest people I knew. She had more than her fair share of struggles, pains, and illnesses, but always found the resolve to pick herself up and keep going. She knew she wasn’t perfect, and that used to get her down but she grew to learn that you don’t have to be in order to be your best self. People are always a work in progress, which is why we should be kind to one another, always.
She never shied away from striking up a conversation with a complete stranger, if she thought their outfit was cute she didn’t hesitate to let them know. These impromptu tête-à-têtes often made a young me cringe with embarrassment, how do you just talk to people you don’t know?! But my mom had a way about her, the gift of gab, and by the end of these conversations strangers became friends.
She was someone who always danced like no one was watching. I recall once while vacationing at a local campground, there was a party at the community building. Music was playing and there were a lot of people just milling about, but not many dancing. Even then I was too embarrassed to go out on the dance floor, afraid for the judging eyes, but she dragged me out there and we danced and laughed as she twirled me around and I forgot about all the people. We were just having fun. Even today I strive to be more like her in that way, who cares who’s watching. Just be yourself and have fun.
Although she never hunted, and would sometimes curl up her nose before trying a new wild game meal I was offering, my mother was always encouraging of my pursuit as an adult onset hunter. She beamed with pride when she spoke to friends, and I’m sure strangers, about her youngest daughter sleeping in the back of a truck to go bear hunting, helping train a pack of fuzzy-faced bird dogs, or trudging through the grouse woods while six months pregnant.
The truth is, I am who I am because of her. I’m a strong woman because a strong woman raised me, even if she didn’t always believe it of herself. Although Olivia never had the opportunity to meet her Nona in person, she’s with her always. I see so much of Mom’s personality in her - always chatting, dancing, and has a strong will. I hope to one day be brave enough to do my mother proud and embarrass my daughter as we dance like no one is watching.
