When you lose someone close to you, you learn to live with the idea of them not being there anymore. You learn to adapt to new memories without them. You learn to eventually stop picking up the phone to try and talk to them. You learn to appreciate left over text messages and other remnants of who they were. You find ways to keep their spirit alive, even though the thought that you even have to do this is daunting.
After losing my mom last April, I’ve learned to adapt to this new life. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her, and as the first anniversary of her death approaches, I’ve started to narrow down those last experiences we had together. I have generated this checklist of what I remember my mom being around for those last days. Unfortunately, most of that time has become a blur. One of the last conversations I remember having with my mother was on Easter Sunday of last year, just three days before her passing. I made one of her favorite meals, baked ziti, and fed her as she sat upright in her recliner, eyes, closed, noodle by noodle until I was satisfied that she had eaten enough. I remember her thanking me for making the food, and asking for a piece of cake. That was the last conversation I would ever have with my mother where she respond with words. I revisit that day a lot.
Thoughts of my mother are ongoing. However, I don’t often think about my own mortality, until something happens that makes me stop and think about what might become of me when I’m gone. A blogger that I follow recently passed away. I didn’t “know” her, per se, but as many bloggers and enthusiasts know, most bloggers write with their hearts on the page. And so did Token Fat Girl. She was honest. She was out there. She was making a statement, as most bloggers do. She wrote about some of the same things I do. Food, weight loss, goals, life, workouts, love, her successes and failures. She posted pictures and tips, progress updates and thoughts of friendship. She was me.
I was saddened to hear about her unexpected passing. She left just a day after her 30th birthday. She was just a day older than Brian; just a few years younger than I. I cannot begin to wrap my brain around how someone so young can leave this world, and as I go through her blog posts, it’s a haunting experience. It makes me think about my own blog and its stories. How one day these stories will be a glimpse into who I was. I wonder who will renew my domain, ensuring these stories are preserved in time. I wonder if anyone will preserve hers. As a blogger, I know how much goes into each post. I sit and think about just what I want to say, and make sure that my thoughts are genuine and significant, even if it’s just significant to me. What will become of all these stories when I’m all far away?
Life is not unlimited. Live fully. Love deeply. Be more happy than sad. Tell your story. Share your life with someone. Give. Respect one another. Appreciate what you have. Enjoy each day (yes, even Mondays). Take care of your body. Believe. Enjoy. Inspire.
Thinking about Lorrie and her family; her husband, her friends, her readers.