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Dorothy Mae Patrick 

My mother died a few short weeks after this photo was taken. In a hospital bed, surrounded by her family, in that very same spot in the living room where the recliner had been. Baby Adele, whom she lovingly called “Miss Round”, was six months old when she passed. Luc was not quite three. She would have spoiled them so. When I was 18 and getting ready to apply to college, my mother told me I should consider becoming a nurse. I laughed at her then, and yet here I am years later, a hospice nurse. Her cancer was diagnosed while I was pregnant; her brain metastasis discovered when I was finishing up my maternity leave. After that, I did not go back to work. In the midst of chemo, she’d call me and say “when are you bringing my babies over? I need to see them!” Her illness and death left me with a resilience I did not know I had. The profoundest loss I have known, I was 32 when she died. Too young to lose my mother, though I think we are always too young to lose our moms. When asked about her, I will often say that if the Queen of England came to dinner, my mother would serve hot dogs and beans on paper plates. But everyone would have plenty to eat and be made to feel welcome. That was my mother in a nutshell. She put on airs for no one. I think of her when I bake an apple pie (as I did today), when I cook her spaghetti sauce, and when I look at my now-teenaged daughter who looks so much like her it hurts. I wish I had had more time with her. More than that, I wish my kids had more time with her. I love you, Mom. And I miss you every day. (love you too JB. Xoxoxoxo. Thank you for this gift.) 

Andrea M Patrick-Baudet 

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