She always had a sober look on her face when we would meet at the Y; today I found out why. Mumbling as I got off the scales this morning, I said "hi" to her as usual. "How are you," she said. "Still fatter than I would like," I vainly bitched. "But look at you, you've got such a beautiful figure." "You don't want to lose weight the way I did," she added. "I lost my son last Halloween. He was 20."
Suddenly my weight seemed such a petty matter to be worrying about. Fatima's plight put it into horrifying perspective. I remember the car accident that took his life. As usual it involved a bunch of kids who had had too much to drink, resulting in a head-on crash when the young driver ran a red light at John Laurie and Sarcee -- right around the corner. Flowers still adorn the intersection, a picture of her son still there.
Another dear friend lost her son when he was but 24. How can mothers handle this? I have no idea, but both my friend and Fatima are bravely carrying on for the sake of their other children and grandchildren. I stand in awe of both.
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