I’ve spent all week trying to decide whether I should write about this or not. It’s a strange post about a strange topic, and I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.
Since last Sunday I have lived longer than my Mum did.
She died in 1987, 23 days after her 55th birthday. Last Sunday was the 24th day after mine.
It’s always been there, as I’ve gone from my late 40s to early 50s. There was always this vague feeling that I was approaching some sort of ceiling, and the fact that my Dad is still going strong at 79 did nothing to dispel this.
Now that I’ve passed her age, still in great health (yes, ok, I have the pacemaker, but in every other way I’m still really fit, in every possible meaning of that expression) I feel relieved, and also a bit ashamed at feeling that way.
But mostly I’m looking at all the things that I’m doing, that I’m planning to do, that I’m hoping to do, and I feel sad. I’ve always known, of course, that she died too young, but now that I’m in territory that she never got to I realise, more profoundly than ever, just how true that is.
Still miss you, Mum.