THE AGING CHRONICLES: ROBERTA

Recently, I was flat on my back for several days due to a stomach ailment. I had LOTS of time to think. As one gets older, it takes longer to heal.

Sometimes I had a little pity party, attended only by myself and Paddy, my ever-loyal dog. I kept lamenting how much it sucked to be older, living alone, and ill. My mind naturally wandered to the times when I was traveling on business. When you regularly fly for more than ten years, there are occasions when you become sick while on the road. Sitting in a hotel room, sick as a dog, and thousands of miles away from home is not fun.

Even worse than being sick in some long-forgotten hotel room (they all look pretty much the same) is having an infant that requires breastfeeding every 2 to 3 hours and developing mastitis. Mastitis is an infection of the breast. It makes breastfeeding excruciating, but you have to breastfeed to keep it empty. Plus, you usually run an elevated temperature and feel like you've just been run over by a truck. You breastfeed anyway.

It was during the height of my bout with mastitis when my husband received a call from his mother in the middle of the night. She had a panic attack and needed him to come to her house immediately. He went into the middle of the night, leaving me feverish and ill and with a baby to care for myself. I was resentful and felt sorry for myself that night and beyond.

I didn't have any compassion for her at that time. I should have, but I didn't. I was overwhelmed with taking care of this newborn while battling mastitis. On the other hand, my mother-in-law was dealing with a recent diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer at age 70. She had raised my husband alone after her husband died. Her husband was under a car repairing it when the hoist holding it slipped. He was killed instantly. She heard the crash and rushed to the garage, but it was too late. Their only child, a son, was 18 months old.

She raised him by herself on an x-ray technologist salary. She struggled because women were paid even less than they are today. Her occupation very likely contributed to breast cancer later in life. After all, this was 70 years ago.

I had an epiphany this week. What would be worse than knowing you would not survive a diagnosis, living alone, and having the one person you loved now living on his own with a family to care for? I realize it took me 35 years, but I finally got it.

She struggled for the next few years and loved our daughter with every beat of her heart. We made sure that she saw Marcy as often as possible. Even though she died when Marcy was age three, Marcy still has fond memories of her. I wish Roberta could see her now and the woman she's become––an outstanding woman managing motherhood, being a wife, and succeeding in business simultaneously. I wish she could see her great-grandchildren and experience Marcy all over again.

I am now well, but thoughts of Roberta and my regret for not feeling compassion for her keep occupying my mind today. Your legacy lives on––in your son, your granddaughter, and your great-grandchildren's lives. You deserve so much more than what I gave you. Rest in peace, Roberta.