No Regrets

Memories of Mom arrive at unexpected times in unexpected ways. Seeing her handwriting always hits me strong. Penmanship is such an individualized expression of personality. I came across an old note from Mom today--nothing important, just a scribble in a margin--and one thought led to another....

The memories don't make me particularly melancholy, just sad. Wistful. As time passes I'm increasingly amazed at Mom's courage in her final months. Because her ordeal worsened gradually, one tiny disaster after another, I didn't really realize at the time what a cumulative burden she was carrying and how gracefully she did so. I'm only seeing it in retrospect. As I wrote in Mom's Cancer, it's amazing what you can get used to.

At any rate, searching my photo archives for something else I found this:
This is me with Mom around the time she was doing her best: after she regrew her hair and moved to Hollywood; before the walkers, wheelchairs, physical therapy, hospitals, and gradual decline. She was happier there than I'd seen her in years. Good sandwiches. No regrets.