The day I lost my mother

Today is my mom's birthday: she would have been seventy-eight years old. Unfortunately, she passed away a little more than a year ago. That day, I lost the woman of my life...

Many years ago, after more than one miscarriage and a doctor advising against trying again because of her advanced age, my mother gave birth to me at the age of forty-two. I was a premature baby, weighing only two pounds (yes, you read well): I stayed in an incubator for months. Fortunately enough, after that, I was a perfectly healthy baby. No need to say that I was my parents little miracle as anyone who knows them can tell. I was also a lucky baby: you don't choose your biological parents and mine were exceptional. They were always there for me and they loved me unconditionally. My father is still an important part of my life and I love him very much, but you know, I've always been my mother's son.

She was always happy and one of the most generous women I've known. She brought me a lot and I wouldn't be the man I am today if it wasn't about her. Most of my core values came from my education, from my parents' values. Honesty, generosity, love and being happy in life are some of those. She always did whatever she can to help me be happy and live a great life. I've always been her first priority, even pushing her own needs after mine. She was a loving and proud mother. My biggest regret is that she saw me in a terrible state when I was not well: her son was in a lot of pain, I know she was too. She was that kind of woman...

On June 25 last year, the woman I loved and still love so much left this world. Deep down, you know: there are way more chances you survive your parents than the opposite. Still, I don't think you are ever ready. I was not! She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer and that asshole was quite aggressive. It was imminent, but I was still not ready, at all. That day, my entire world felt apart. She was not there anymore. I knew it was better for her: she didn't suffer and honestly, she wasn't living anymore, thanks to her illness. Still, I was selfish: I didn't want her to go. I didn't want her to leave me. That day, I became a man.

They say that all the first time after a loved one is gone are the hardest: first birthday, first Christmas celebrations, first mother's day, first family dinner... For me, simply talking about her is hard: it brings me tears every time. I guess it will become easier with time, but for me, it will never be easy. I still think about her every day and I miss her so much. She was a religious woman going to church every week: God had an important part in her life. Knowing that, I firmly believe that she is up there, watching me...

Maman, je t'aime!