Standing, farthest to the right

I may have said this before, but I've always hesitated before agreeing with people when they say things like, "I'm glad my mother isn't alive to see this."
Talk about a judgement! And sometimes they're talking about minor things. The destruction of a beloved building, the election of a bad leader. Even major events, a disaster in which many innocents are killed, for example, don't always reach the bar.
As upsetting as the news flung at us throughout our days can be, it's doubtful many would rather die than learn of it.
Then there's me, my upcoming leg amputation, and my probably terminal condition, all tied to a bone disease I had as a child. How would my mother, who died in 2011 and would be eighty-seven today, have taken my unfortunate news? Actually, probably pretty well, provided dementia hadn't crept in, which it hadn't at the time.
Honestly, although I'm nearly sixty and I've been making my life decisions for forty years now, a part of me wishes she were here, driving me to doctors' appointments, getting information, talking things over with my father (who also died in 2011) and making important choices, as she did when I was four years old.
That sounds horribly selfish of me—bring back Mom and put her to work! I don't mean it that way, of course.
My mother is in the photo here. The title of this post tells you which girl she is.

Girls at a pool, circa 1946.