Today is the twentieth anniversary of my mother’s death.
I can’t help but think of all the things she missed in my life. The end of my first marriage. The second marriage that would have brought her a new daughter-in-law and a grandson.
When she died, I had barely begun my career. I was in the middle of writing my first feature story for Macworld, which ended up being the cover story early in 1990. Later that year, I was named a Contributing Editor for the magazine.
We had our differences in the years leading up to her death; I was born with a disability, so we were especially close when I was a child. But I think that she found it difficult to make the transition when I grew up, and I don’t feel that she ever really accepted me as an adult. I regret that we were not able to bridge that gap before she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. And then it was simply too late; time began to move too quickly. It was only six weeks from that diagnosis to the end.
Rather than sketching my remembrance of hospitals and pain, I’d like to share a picture of her that her sister, our beloved Auntie Theresa, gave us a few years ago. It shows a young girl of 8 or 9, smiling into the camera, a girl who had her whole life ahead of her. She didn’t know what the future would hold, but I know her story. All those possibilities led to her long and happy marriage to my father, Joe Negrino, and to her legacy of her four children: my sister Marie, my late sister Pattie, my brother Robert, and me.
This was Dorothy, who became Dorothy Negrino, who became my mother.
I love you, Mom. I remember you.