Note to sisters: I’m not intending to make you cry, but please get tissues ready. I promised I’d warn you.

"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." – Kurt Vonnegut

Yesterday was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 72. It’s hard to think of your mother as a 72-year-old. In your mind she’s always the youthful woman of your childhood, stirring a giant pot of soup while keeping a thousand kids at bay.

I’m sure everyone who is familiar with me, my relationship with my mother and the trouble I had with her death was wondering why I didn’t post about it yesterday. And there was a good reason.

I decided to do what my mom would have done. I spent the day with my kids. Princess Matilda had an event at school in the evening and the whole family went to partake in the festivities. Matilda buzzed around like a socialite and baby Gertrude melted in the summer heat into a lump of chubby, sweaty flesh. When we got home, they were both bouncing off the walls and had to be tranquilized with blowguns to get them in bed. The wife and I then collapsed in bed, dehydrated and exhausted.

But I thought about my mom all day. I thought about all the things I haven’t been able to share with her, all the thing she missed. I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t say, “If only my mom was around . . .”

I had an odd relationship with my mother. When my father died I was five. My siblings had already begun leaving home, going to college, getting married . . . I was the baby. But our relationship blossomed into a deep friendship that went beyond your traditional mother-son relationship. Sure, as a teen I didn’t show the respect I should have, but she expected it. She let me make, and learn from, my own mistakes.

She was the best critic I’ve ever had. The comments she made on my short stories and other writings were so insightful and well thought out that sometimes I wonder if the accolades I garnered for their creation were due to her comments. She was my “audience of one.” I wrote for her. As long as she was pleased, I felt I had succeeded.

I didn’t do any creative writing for nearly five years after her death. It was when I discovered my new audience of one that I started again. It wasn’t until last August that I really began in earnest, thanks to my new audience. But, mom’s opinion still matters and I often wonder how she would react to what I’m writing. Her influence is still pervasive in my work. I rarely use profanity. That’s because of her. She always told me that it was a cheap way of expressing myself and that I could find a much better way of saying what I wanted to say without using expletives.

But, most of all, we talked. I always had an outlet and a sympathetic ear. She’d tell me when I was wrong. She’d tell me my options. And, I hope at least, I was able to provide her with the same comfort.

When she came home and told us she had cancer . . . I was numb. I remember clearly that I was standing at the kitchen sink cleaning out the filter for my fish tank. She told us, with an odd smile. Inside, I felt as if the foundation of a building had just collapsed. On the outside I just went back to cleaning the filter. I went down to my room and just sat on the steps, deflated. There was nothing else I could do. My best friend just told me that she had cancer. What could I do?

My brother-in-law came over, as he did every afternoon because my mom watched his kids. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he found out. He was able to display the emotion that I had bottled up inside. I envy that.

We went through a series of surgeries, treatments, alternatives and drugs. To no avail. When our biggest hope, major surgery, failed . . . my heart sunk. When we saw my mother being wheeled from recovery to her room she looked small and frail. The woman who, in my mind, was an indestructible giant looked fragile. It was more than I could take. I immediately burst into tears.

Had it not been for my brother, who took my by the shoulders and walked me away so we could cry alone . . . I’m not sure what would have happened.

When I finally went home, the rage that I had bottled in me since that first announcement just boiled over.

Each of the siblings had a little lucky charm that we had found in my mother’s belongings. I had been carrying it in my jeans ever since we found it. That day I took it down to the basement, placed it on the floor and smashed the hell out of it. Whatever faith I had, everything I had believed in had been torn apart. I felt more alone at that moment than I have ever felt before, or since. To this day I fear experiencing that sort of pain again.

I then smashed everything I could find (that wouldn’t be missed). Hockey sticks were reduced to splinters. The day’s mail was torn to shreds. Walls were punched.

And none of it made me feel any better. I had learned nothing except that it is impossible to “rage against the dying of the night.” Darkness always comes.

The next few months were tough, but mom and I slowly got used to her prognosis together. I spent as much time with her as possible, and what I spent away was riddled with guilt. I had a deadline.

Mom and I spoke about her impending death. To my surprise she wasn’t scared for herself. She was worried about her single, twenty-two-year-old diabetic son being alone. Even in her time of need, she thought of others. That’s the way she was. There wasn’t a selfish bone in her body. Even when she should have been crying “Why? WHY!” she was making plans for me.

She died on December 5, 1995. Less than three weeks after I had started an internship, thrusting myself into the “real world.” I was there when she died. When I saw it coming, I left the room. She and I had started my life together. I had no interest in ending hers together. I knew it was happening. I could feel it, but I didn’t want to participate. I couldn’t. I watched a hockey game in the waiting room instead.

She had done all my Christmas shopping prior to her death. What she hadn’t gotten for me, she sent people out to buy. I don’t remember what was in many of those packages. The one thing I do remember was a wide screen set of the original Star Wars films. My last gift from my mother proved how well she knew me. She knew me well enough to get the letterbox versions. Stupidly, I lent them to my (now) ex-girlfriend’s brother. I haven’t seen them since. Every Christmas I kick myself for doing that.

I think of my mom constantly. But I no longer mourn her loss. I miss her. A lot. She was an incredible woman. I wish she had been around to meet my wife and stepdaughter. I think she’d like them a lot. I wish she’d been around to meet my baby. But, part of me thinks she already has. But I would have liked to share that moment in my life with her.

I think she’d be proud of me, though. I think she’d be proud of this little family I’ve built. I think she would be proud of the fact that I turned my back on the work-a-day lifestyle to carve out my own path as a writer and editor. I think she’d smile if she knew that I was going to drop everything this afternoon and go to Matilda’s school to see the end of the year assembly. Because I was invited. I think she’d smile when I go have lunch with Matilda at school. And she’d love the fact that this summer I’m working my schedule so that I can have Fridays off to spend with the girls doing “daddy” things, like riding merry-go-rounds and playing in the dirt while watching the trains in Kirkwood.

As I said, I often say “if only my mom were still around . . .” but she is. I owe her everything. She taught me everything that I know. My values and my priorities are hers. My talents and interests were nurtured by her. Both my cautiousness and my yearning to grasp life by the short hairs and live it to it’s fullest are hers.