Today would have been my mom’s 75th birthday.
Instead, it’s the third one without her here.
Sometimes I forget that my mom died so young.
I hesitate to even call 72 young because I know so many people have died so much younger than that, but I also know so many people who have lived for so much longer.
My mom loved her birthday, and she knew when it was right up until the end. She would proudly tell everyone, “January 24th, 1948.”
I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if she was still here today—without the Alzheimer’s that ravaged her mind.
How would we celebrate her birthday?
Would I pick her up and take her out to lunch? Or would she drive to my house? (Something she was never able to do—not even once.)
Would we have a cake and sing “Happy Birthday” to her? Or would she not want to make a big deal about it?
Would she lie about her age because she wished she was younger? Or would she embrace it because she was grateful to still be alive?
That’s the thing about birthdays.
We only get so many and we’ll never know the count.
But the people we leave behind will never forget.
And hopefully, they’ll never stop celebrating for us.
Happy 75th Birthday, Mom!
I will always wish we had more, but I know we made the most of every single one.
*If this post resonated with you, you should consider joining the Alzheimer’s Daughters Club!
**If you liked this post, you would love my book “When Only Love Remains: Surviving My Mom’s Battle with Early Onset Alzheimer’s.” It’s available on all Amazon marketplaces.
