My mother died when I was 10. I never got to see her at the end; never got to say goodbye. Maybe she wasn't really dead. Maybe my behavior was bad enough that she just left. She was living somewhere in he world unencumbered by a barely 10 year old girl who sometimes was self-centered (just ask my aunt, I was - and I had poor penmanship, too.)
Or maybe she died because I didn't do something to better care for her when she was sick. I mean, I was 10...I should have been able to cure her, right?
Right?
It wasn't until I was well into adulthood that I learned abut magical thinking. Common.
And it wasn't. my. fault.
And yet...
I wrote about breast cancer yesterday.
And this morning a woman I know died. From breast cancer.
I was up in a beautiful mountain town, with a great guy, and all I could think all day was....(fill in the blank). I could have done more for my friend Heide, should have raised more money for research, should have known to reach out to someone more.
I am taken immediately back to that 10 year old child, Scared. Anxious. Afraid.
What makes you afraid? What do you feel responsible for?
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