There was something about my first days as a mother that reminded me of my final moments with my own mother. Neither my newborn nor my mother could talk back. But could they understand me?
I had my children young, keeping in mind that my own mother died 46. Now I’m 46, missing my mother, grieving my 12-year-old son, and also happily, unexpectedly pregnant.
After entering foster care, I got used to losing physical things. But my mother's death isn't a loss -- it's an event, an experience that defies language.
I'm an EMT volunteer who knew the paramedics 'working my mother.' Finally reboarding an ambulance a year after her death, I discovered a new dimension to my service.