By all accounts, my mother seemed way too young to die. 
She was a busy bee, always involved in church and social functions. She and dad traveled the world. She was a tireless gardener. An attentive grandmother. And she spent the last 30 years of her life dedicated to compiling historical accounts of Allen County.
She was fit, happy and focused — the supposed ingredients for a long life.
But, she had heart disease.
When she was 74, she had quintuple bypass surgery, which bought her only another handful of years.
It took me several years to accept her death.
I felt robbed of a relationship I had expected to enjoy for many years more. After all, her parents lived well into their 80s and 90s. In fact, as a family we seemed to take a perverse pride in being long-lived, as if it reflected some special character. Ha!
BUT WHEN I think of my mother’s passing from what may have been her perspective — if that’s possible — it may have been just about right.
She hated feeling less than. And in those latter years there were days when she just felt beat for no obvious reason.
Accustomed to living full-steam ahead, it frustrated her that she couldn’t get it back. There was just so much to do!
Because she was not one for self-indulgence, I began to sense a hesitancy on her part to discuss just exactly how she was feeling. When queried, she would brush me off, clearly bothered by the intrusion.
Her anger surprised me. Looking back, I can feel the fear.
There’s not a day that I don’t think of my mom and how in some fashion I try to model her passion for life.
She taught me it’s not the number of years that are so important, but how you live them.
