"Don't let my plants die," my mom yelled as she pulled out of the driveway, the yellow Alaskan license plate disappearing in the distance. I looked at the container garden she left behind that takes 30-45 minutes to water each day, and I sighed.

For the second time, Mom has left my house with the intention of not returning as a live-in resident. She gained 16 pounds and muscle working in the garden this last month. She is cancer free, growing stronger, and feeling better. The bowel obstruction was taken care of in surgery, and she is able to eat a broader range of foods. True to form, once my mother feels better, she pushes on. So, off she went. First to travel the east coast visiting friends and family -- then to Alaska and the log cabin in the wilderness.

I am thrilled for her, but I have empty nest syndrome, though my daughter, of course, is still here. I miss my mom.
For the last year and half, my mom has usually been with us (except for a few short trips and one very long hospital visit). I've been able to avoid the worst parts of being a single mom, though it wasn't childcare help that she gave me. My mom could not baby sit much for my daughter. She could keep an eye on her for a few minutes when I was in the shower or sit with her when my daughter was watching a movie (after I bathed her and put in pajamas), but that was all she could offer.

Taking care of a person fighting for life was not easy, but she has an equally dark sense of humor, and we often joked about her cancer, the possibility of her death, and other issues that I imagine most people would find inappropriate subjects for laughter. In addition, she gave me a partner in my decisions, if not another person who could provide childcare. At least I had another adult in the house. I often asked her advice, so the decisions I made about discipline, childcare, medicine and more were not made alone. I didn't feel quite so alone in that.

So, I miss her. She'll be back, as a temporary visitor, and Sarah and I will fly to Alaska this summer for a wilderness fix. But never again will she live with us has she has. And that makes me both happy (because she is healthy) and sad (because she is gone). So, I sit here on the patio in the garden she constructed, drinking the ice tea she taught me to make, and trying to think of an appropriate Mother's Day gift for her. She's got her health back, and she is heading back home to Alaska.

Can't think of a thing.