Time Does Heal All Wounds
By Teresa K. Flatley

Baby Boomers have to get used to double digit anniversaries. How many years has it been since you graduated from high school? 25? 30? 35? That many, huh? How many years have you been married, worked at the same place, lived in the same home?

Sometimes these numbers come as a shock; we can't believe that much time has passed. And yet other times, the number of years seems to reflect how we are feeling and we're no longer surprised that so much time has passed.

On Wednesday, it will be thirty years since my mother died. Early in the morning of September 1, 1974, we were called to the hospital because she had gotten worse. The cancer which was eating away at her finally had its way. There are many moments about that day that I remember, but a lot of what took place is fading in my memory.

Life was different 30 years ago. In 1974, Gerald Ford had just taken over as President following Richard Nixon's resignation. It was the Year of the Streaker; long denim skirts were the fashion, and Paul Anka crooned his not-easily-forgettable tune, "You're Having My Baby." Larry and I had just gotten married in May of that year, with my mother in attendance but in terrible shape.

The summer between my wedding and her death was taken over by phone calls. Mom was in and out of the hospital several times and I spent a lot of time on the phone with my dad finding out how she was doing. The doctor was trying new treatments. As late as the night before she died, my parents' 31st wedding anniversary, he told her he wanted to try something new in the morning.

He never got the chance.

I'm beginning to finally understand why people say time heals all wounds. My dad died less than four years ago and his memory is still so strong. I can see him clearly in my mind's eye, sitting in our living room watching the Steelers, helping me with the endless projects I came up with and he made happen. I can still hear his voice as he answered the phone at the candy store, "Sugar Bowl." And how he would get frustrated when he was forced to leave a message on my answering machine: "Hey. Give me a call, will ya? Okay, honey?"

My dad's memory can still make me cry. My mom's memory is more like a warm place in my heart. Thirty years. A long time.