When I was younger, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?” Will I lose you?

Feb. 19, 2008

Shiva is a ritual in the Jewish culture. It’s when the friends and family of deceased loved ones visit your home and sit with the mourning family members for seven days. Mirrors are covered, cushions are removed, and heaps and heaps of food is flown in and out of the doors (enough to feed an entire village in some countries). The mourners are usually too devastated to eat any of it, so it goes to waste, just like the wilted body buried six feet under.

And what did I want to do that day? All I wanted to do was be normal. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want my grandma’s famous cheesecake. I wanted it to all go away.

I wanted to give myself a permission slip. One that would allow me to be goofy, have fun, be myself and feel like the other kids.

Wednesdays were pizza day in elementary school. I had my parents order me two slices of cheese pizza every week. It was the only thing I could even think of stomaching. I grabbed my coat and headed towards the door.

I walked into my classroom, and all heads turned to face me.

“Didn’t her mom just die yesterday?” I heard from the corner of the room.

The comment jolted me back to reality. The whispers seeped into my body like the cancer had spread throughout my mother. Last week I still had a naive hope that everything would be alright, but today, I knew the truth. I would never see my mother ever again. Some kids from school had attended the funeral, a secret I would have kept if it wasn’t for the teachers telling the whole class what had happened.

Lunch began at exactly 12:10 p.m., and I was right on time for pizza lunch. Kids were already swarming around the pizza like vultures, trying to call dibs on my greasy, cheesy pieces.

“I’m here. I’ll take them to go,” I said with a smile. I just wanted to be happy.

My friends gathered around me with hugs and sorrows.

“We’re so sorry about what happened. The teachers told us.”

“It’s okay,” I said in a strangely gleeful tone. I wasn’t sure if I was in denial or content that she was no longer in pain.

I grabbed my pizza and left, taking a large bite out of one slice as I walked out. It was more than I had eaten all week. I assume much like the maggots that were now devouring her body.

All I wanted was a pizza party, not a pity party.

I got back to my house, and dozens of people greeted me. Loud banter, yentas yenta-ing. All anyone ever wanted to do was talk.

I didn’t want to talk. I felt ashamed and embarrassed about a normal childhood that was taken from me. While others were sitting in playgrounds, I was sitting in hospital waiting rooms. While others were running around having their first kisses, I was kissing my mother goodbye at her funeral. They were sitting in class, and I was sitting shiva.

Because I was so young, I didn’t get to grieve her. I just had to keep living life, going through school and pretending everything was fine.

When I was younger, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?”

Will I lose you?

I often wonder how different my life would’ve been had she been in it all these years. I think about how she would’ve been here to support me as much as she was there for her family, friends, co-workers and students.

I wish I could hear her stories in her voice. For her to be a part of my life, to meet my friends, future husband and kids. For her to have seen me graduate from school and move into my own place. I know she’d be so proud.

I imagine her being there to help move my items into my new place. She would have no idea what type of furniture to pick out or what shades or colours paired well, but she would’ve been there to help.

I wish we could share our love for English and writing. My grandma told me that she was a great writer and won scholarships for her essays. Despite being fairly secretive with my writing, I might have shared it with her.

I sometimes get upset thinking about how she’ll never be there for my special events. It seems like everyone else around me has a support system to help guide them in this giant solar system of life.

Some people are fortunate enough to have fond childhood memories – ones of laughter, playing with toys or the squeak of the swing set. While I have those memories, too, many have been overshadowed by the sounds of beeping hospital monitors, the sanitary smell that I know all too well, and the undeniable pain of losing your main support system.

While I would have loved for her to still be here, the universe had other plans. But I will keep living and chugging on because that is what she would want me to do.

If you or someone you know is suffering from grief, there are many resources to help you through it. Remember, you are not alone.

• What’s Your Grief
• Children and Youth Grief Network
• Children’s Grief Foundation
• Wellness and Emotion Support for Youth Online
• Grief Haven Support Groups