Speaking of counting blessings
Yesterday was my mother’s 57th birthday. She’s a year and 3 days older than my sweetheart; well, she was, anyway. She’s going to get older and older, but he will not. I sent her an e-mail in the morning to wish her a happy birthday and to let her know I’d call that evening. She wrote back that she didn’t want to celebrate anymore birthdays; she was already too old. She also said something similar on the phone, that she didn’t like getting old, and I told her it beats the alternative.
I told her to celebrate as many as she possibly can. She is not the first person I’ve said this to. A’s best friend made some comment about being old, too, and I told him to be old. To be as old as he could be. I’ve met his wife; she adores him, and I’d hate for her to lose him too soon.
I suppose my mom has a right to her opinion as to how long she wants her life to last. But it seems flip to curse the years you are given, when others don’t get quite so many. I didn’t say this to her, of course; she cannot make up for his passing. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting some to hear her complaining about her "advanced" age when a) I’d just as soon she continue living, and b) A didn’t get to. She said to me she thought she’d have at least 20 more years, and based on when her own mother died, I suppose that’s a fair estimate. I sincerely hope she’s right. Because I thought A and I would have at least 20 more years, too. And I’d give anything to be celebrating his birthday with him this Thursday.