Today is the first anniversary of Mom’s death from cancer. She lived a reasonably long and very full life, but it is still hard to accept that she is gone, especially as a result of a rare and incurable cancer. Life is not fair, because only allowing Mom seventy-one years of life seems like not enough.

In many ways we were very lucky. Mom was diagnosed with cancer in 2009, and initially was told by some of her doctors that she should not hope to live more than a year. Over the next five-plus years she endured a lot of tough treatments but also enjoyed a lot of good times. She continued to go to Nova Scotia each summer, and we all got to join her in a lot of wonderful adventures. When Dad died we had almost no warning; in a matter of days he was no longer present, and in a matter of weeks he was no longer alive. But with Mom’s illness we knew that we had only years left in her life, a very tough reality that also allowed us to appreciate our remaining time with her.

Mom stayed healthy and strong until nearly the end. She drove herself home from Nova Scotia in the early Fall of 2014, and it wasn’t until October that I got the fateful call from her: they wanted to keep her at Dartmouth-Hitchcock because she was beginning to experience serious symptoms of her rapidly-spreading cancer. That short phone call was pretty much the last fully-lucid conversation I had with Mom, although we enjoyed several weeks with her in the hospital and in hospice.

When liver metastases are what kills you, you go pretty gently. Almost mercifully your body’s ability to cleanse toxins from your bloodstream declines, leaving you in a mental fog that slowly thickens. Mom slipped into a state of being less aware of what was befalling her, and I think that was for the best. But before she became completely confused, she had her moments of lucidity. And the one that I will always remember with most love and sadness occurred when she was visited by a palliative care doctor in the hospital.

Mom was never much for emptying her soul: she could be very emotional, but she was not particularly fond of opening up… especially to strangers. So it was a bit awkward as this very kind and gentle palliative care doctor sat with Mom, asking her important — and emotional — end-of-life questions. Central to these questions was did Mom have any regrets that she wanted to address before she died?

In my eyes, Mom had very little to regret in her life. She worked incredibly hard, and became a veritable force of nature, both as the motivating presence of our family and as a talented educator. She had a lot of adventures when she was young, and then with Dad, and then with the family they created, and then on her own after Dad died. Throughout she lived life on her own terms and was a really steadfast, reliable person to all whom she loved. She let no one down, and had nothing to regret.

Mom struggled to answer the palliative doctor’s question. None of her regrets required palliation. But she did have regrets.

“I guess my biggest regret is what I will miss. I would like to be at my granddaughter’s high school graduation, but I know that I won’t be around for that.”

Mom’s honest and clear regret cut right through me, and tears dripped down my face. Although Mom probably did not need the emotional facet of palliative care, I was thankful to that doctor for eliciting this feeling from Mom. For me it was important to face this very sad and very difficult reality: Mom would not be around to see where the family she created would end up.

The tragedy producing Mom’s regret has two mercilessly brutal sides. It is not just tragic that Mom will not get to see what happens to her sons and to her grandchildren. It is equally sad that her grandchildren will not get to experience her — and all of her powers — as they grow up. Eric and I miss Mom dearly, but we carry within us the values and aptitudes that her love and presence as a parent provided. It is tough to swallow that our kids will not have the chance to learn what we have learned from their Grandmother.

This loss inspires a big aspiration of this site: not to replace what having known Robert and Susan would have provided to our kids, but to at least give our kids a rich sense of who their grandparents were.

So, on the first anniversary of Mom’s death, I am most sad for my three kids.

For Gaia, who was lucky enough to get to know her grandmother quite well, but also was just blossoming into a young woman when she lost her Grandma Sue.

For Quinn, who got to experience his grandmother’s adoration and attention, even though he will have no memory of those times.

And for Thea, who only got to meet her grandmother once and under the worst of circumstances.

My three babies, I am so sad that your grandmother was taken from you too soon, but I am going to try to do my best to teach you everything that she taught me, and to tell you about who she was.