Today will mark two years since my mum, Dawn Frearson, died. It’s a strange thing to type out. It feels like both not that long and forever at the same time. I was reading back on one of her blog posts recently, and it struck me just how different her writing was right at the end of her life. She had also asked me not to edit the post, so that people could see how her brain was working at the time. Looking back, it felt like her condition had become so normalized, but compared to how she’d been pre-surgery, it was night and day. I think you get used to how someone is in the moment. Even now, a lot of memories of my mum are of how she was while she was living with cancer. I had many tender moments with her in those months, while she was having trouble taking care of herself. Those times, I got to take care of her like she’d taken care of me my whole life. Even though in some ways, she wasn’t the same mum that had raised me and watched me grow up, in the ways that mattered, she still was that same mum. That version of her and all versions of her are still versions of her.

I think about my mum daily, but especially so around the time of her death. I was thinking recently about the week before my son Rex was born and our car was broken into. It was a stormy night, I’d rushed in and forgotten to lock the doors, and that night our power went out and left the house dark all night long. A bunch of stuff was taken from the car. Our hospital bag with Rex’s (planned) first outfit, some of my favorite comfy clothes, and a bunch of brand-new nursing/maternity clothes for Kyla. Also, Kyla’s iPod, a nice knife I’d had in there, along with our feeling of safety. As soon as we texted my mum to say what had happened, she Venmo’d me some money to replace the stolen clothes and bag. That money definitely replaced the clothes and bag, but it also gave us a sense of love, safety, security, and support that money could never buy. Giving support and love is something she always did amazingly well, and something that makes my heart break when I think about Rex missing out on it. One of the times she was in the hospital, she bought him three little trains, an R, E, and X to spell his name. When we started coming down a lot more to visit, she put some kid’s books on the bookshelf in her room so Rex could come read with her in the morning. When he started being interested in letters, she bought a magnetic board and some fun letter magnets so that he could play and read letters while she sat in bed. Even in her last days, when everything was painful and uncomfortable, she still had me help her down to the ground to play with Rex at his level.

When I watch Rex play, when I see him at dance class, or he brings home art, or when he’s learning to swim, ski, or climb; I can’t help but see these experiences through a lens of what she’s missing. I can’t help but miss her and think about how much she’d love to be by my side, watching all of this with me and supporting Kyla and I (and my sisters and their partners) through parenthood. I also mourn what Rex is missing. What he doesn’t even know he’s missing. He doesn’t get to have Granma watch him grown into the person he’s going to become. A person she would have loved, by the way. She doesn’t get to watch him get all dressed up in a tutu and leotard to go to dance class or put on his ice cream dress to go out because he wants to be fancy. Watch him play with his friends, tear up the ski hill, practice yoga in the living room. Most of all, he doesn’t get to feel the love and support that so many people in her life were lucky to have felt while she was here.

Every so often, I think to text my mum about something, then I’ll remember that she’s gone, and want to text her about that too. Today, I’m going to lean into the feelings and let myself feel close to her. On the morning my mum died, she said she could feel herself flying over Mount Si. Sometimes, when Rex and I are outside and it’s particularly windy, I’ll tell him I think the wind is Granma coming to say hi. He always agrees that it probably is. Granma has been many places with us on that wind. I’m not sure what I’ll do today to think about my mum, but I know I’m going to listen to Ewan MacColl sing The Joy of Living, and I’ll know that my mum will be riding the gentle wind that blows through my hair.