Mortality Check

A dear old friend's mom is sick, and, as my friend so eloquently summed it up, it "sux."

As if turning fifty -- and then some -- isn't enough to make us acutely aware of our mortality, watching our parents succumb to age and disease is a looming reality check, a constant reminder of time inevitably running low. Of the six childhood friends who recently connected, three are orphans, two of us have only our mothers remaining, and one (the one whose mom is sick) has been blessed this long with two parents. There were no blended families in our group, just plain old moms and dads who stuck together no matter what, regular folks with histories and problems of their own that mattered very little to us. They were our roots, our rocks, seemingly invincible.

A diminutive and incredibly feisty woman, my friend's mom was born in Turkey but, as long as I have known her, has taken her adopted country by storm. She has always been a force to be reckoned with, and I find it hard to believe that she will lose her battle with cancer. I want to return again to her small Brooklyn apartment, once again enjoy the doughy Turkish treats she knew I loved, once again hear her strong, accented voice and watch her take charge of everything and everybody in her midst. I want things to be like they were, at least for a moment or two.

Next weekend, I head to New York to celebrate my own mother's eighty-first birthday. Though she was never a big woman, she has always been larger than life to me (and I mean that only in the most positive way; sort of). A car accident last May and osteoporosis have taken away more than a few inches from her height, compressed her spine so severely that she seems to be disappearing before my very eyes. She has quieted down a bit as well, emailing and calling me far less frequently because she knows I just don't feel like chatting most of the time. Sure, I can do without the constant questioning, the concerned messages, but she would be even more surprised than I am to know how afraid I am that she will, actually, disappear.

Lately, I have wrestled constantly with the notion that my children are so wrapped up in their own lives -- as they should be -- that they barely notice I am there. Sure, I like that they see me as their root, their rock, their invincible mom (okay, maybe invincible is a bit of a stretch), but there is a selfish piece of me that wants them to cherish every moment with me, before I start to disappear.

Yeah, right!