I’m fine. Those two words defined my mother’s last few years. First, she fell and hit her head on the ice, that resulted in a blood clot in her brain. Hence, hospital stay #1, where she amazed us all and returned home after a few days,and she was “fine”. She was fine for about a decade, and then there was bypass surgery. Once again she was home after a few days and “fine”. On her way into the University Hospital to visit her granddaughter after a kidney transplant, she collapsed and after tests and a week there, she was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, but she was “fine’. Then hospital stays became more frequent. An infected toe caused by stepping on a needle, as a result of her diabetes numbed feet required numerous appointments and treatments, but she was “fine”. Next came the amputation of that toe, so she was minus one toe, but “fine”. More surgeries, fewer toes and eventually half of her foot, but she was “fine”. The transition to dialysis was difficult, but after a few tries, she was “fine” and “the nurses there were so nice”. Her final surgery to remove her foot was her last, but she was “fine”.
Through it all there were ups and downs, in hospitals and out of hospitals, trips back and forth for dialysis and she was “fine”. With every scare her failing health gave us, she would rally and was ”fine”. Her doctors would marvel at her resilience every.. time. Fourteen years ago this month her last rebound was not to be, and she passed away leaving us a bit shocked, because she always pulled through and was “fine”. I am certain her “I’m fine” attitude gave her at least three extra years of life. That attitude resides within me still.
I’m fine, but since she left the ground beneath me isn’t quite as solid as it once was. I’m fine and have learned that even my most comfortable spots that couldn’t console me at the time, have regained most of their peace. I’m fine, but I wish I could ask her, if it was fold the egg white mixture into the batter or the batter into the egg white mixture, because she swore it made a difference. I’m fine, but I want to ask her where she put the two rings we haven’t found. I’m fine, but Murder She Wrote reruns aren’t the same without her beside me. I’m fine, but wish she could have known she had a granddaughter who carries on her love of theater. I’m fine, but I wish she could have sat with us cheering all of her grandchildren’s sports. I’m fine, but I ache for her presence at every family celebration. I’m fine, but I wish she could have been here this week to meet the newest of the great grandchildren. I’m fine, but I wish she was here to cook the whole family her homemade pizza. I’m fine, but I wish I could hear her voice sing hymns in church. I’m fine, but I want her to identify all the strangers in old family photos. I’m fine, but holiday baking isn’t the same without her making the rosettes. I’m fine, but I wish my children could have heard her sing solos. I’m fine, but I wish I could ask her for her simple goulash recipe. I’m fine, but no matter how many years have passed, how many wonderful blessings my life holds, and no matter how thankful I am for the years with her, I am living without her.