I have now lost two of the closest people in my life ... almost thirteen years ago, I lost my Dad. Less than a month ago, I lost my Mimi. I am heartbroken, yet more resilient somehow.
My earliest memories all include Mimi. My mother and I are the closest of close, so naturally, as Mimi was her mother, Mimi and I were close, too. My entire childhood was spent with Mimi ... every Saturday, the three of us girls would spend the day shopping, eating out, and laughing. She was at every dance recital, every cheering competition, every birthday celebration ... she was in the hospital room when my oldest child was born, and was at the hospital moments after my second child arrived. She and my Mom have been through all my triumphs and all of my pains with me ... they have been my rocks.
When I could see Mimi becoming frailer, it was agonizing. Seeing someone who has always been a pillar of strength becoming more and more physically weak is one of the hardest things ... but my Mimi—she always had her inner strength and her dignity. She refused to give in to the physical weakness, and although she strictly adhered to what her doctors told her to do, Mimi had to be either in an enormous amount of pain or scared that something was really wrong before she would let my Mom take her to the hospital. Even then, her first thought was of how messy her hair looked ... being proper at the proper time was very important to Mimi. My fondest memories, though, are of all the times she laughed so heartily at my children’s antics ... and of how she let me know how proud she was of me and how I raise my kids, despite the fact that I have lived just about the most un-proper adult life possible.
The past year has been extraordinarily difficult—in every way imaginable. To the outside world, I am holding up. I raise my children well and I get up every day and do the right things. But I tend to feel as though I am dying inside ... and I absolutely hate that. To me, that is weakness. I control my destiny ... I control my world. I have finally come to understand that I cannot control anyone or anything other than myself, and I was relieved to find that that realization brought me a sense of comfort and, more importantly, a greater sense of power over my own life.
I find, though, that for every greater understanding I come to about life, an equally frustrating understanding comes. It’s almost as if I am forced to see that despite my tendency to view things as black or white, all or nothing, life is so much more than that. I do much better when things are clearly defined—then I know for sure what is expected of me, or of someone else, or of a situation. When expectations are clear, so too is the outcome—sense can be made of it. What happens, though, when you gain knowledge that you expect will lend toward a better understanding and instead, the more you know the less you understand?
In this past year, I’ve had to search deeper within myself than I truly knew existed. I was harshly thrown into the reality that sometimes the people you trust the most, who said they would never betray you, do the most unimaginably horrific things to you ... things that make you question every part of life.
In this past year, I’ve lost my trust in the truth, my faith in the sanctity of marriage, and my Mimi.
When I think of her, I think of one of the strongest women I know—the only other woman who is equally as strong is my mother.
