my existential novel
Written on 7/28/2002
“Mother died yesterday. Or was it today?”
So runs the opening of Camus’ “l’etranger”, variously translated as “The Stranger” or “The Outsider.”
It was today, somewhere between 1 and 2 am, that my mother died. We hadn’t spoken in any meaningful way in 30 years, so we weren’t exactly close.
The best summation I have for how the past 48 hours have gone for me is that I feel bad that I don’t feel worse. After all, losing the person who brought you into the world is a milestone for most people.
I first learned she was gravely ill Friday night, about 11 pm, in a rather roundabout way: an aunt with whom I have never had a close relationship telephoned from England earlier in the day to say she wanted to speak to me personally. When the timezones permitted, she told me what was happening: cancer everywhere, no hope of recovery, thought I might want to know.
The best case was that she might last the week, but her suffering ended just a day later.
Filed in: observations.
Sorry to hear about your mother, and I think I understand your existential comment.
One of my uncles died last month; I hadn’t seen him in ages. While making plans to travel with my mother to the funeral, friends would extend their sympathies and ask, “Were you close?” I answered them truthfully: “Well, no, not really.” But that in itself was sad and cause for reflection.