November 2007 is a month I'm glad to finally have in the rear-view mirror.

The rough times started when my mother, Pearl Shapiro, died Nov. 3 in Los Angeles at 83 from chronic emphysema.

Then, only a few days after the funeral, my mother-in-law on the Big Island, Veronica Ibera, was flown to Queen's for triple-bypass heart surgery, from which she is recovering despite needing a second major surgery to remove an intestinal blockage and inflamed gall bladder.

Losing somebody close is always hard, but it's especially difficult to get used to a world that doesn't have your mother in it anymore.

My mom was an unpretentious woman who was often overshadowed by the strong personalities of my dad and two grandmothers, but there was never any question she was the glue that held our family together.

I wasn't surprised that she fulfilled the same role at her job at City of Hope; co-workers half her age still visited her regularly 13 years after her retirement.

One of Mom's doctors told us last year that she'd probably live to the 2006 holiday season, but that it would likely be her last. We all cried, but found hope in our opinion that this doctor was kind of an idiot. Wouldn't you know it would be one of the few things that she was right about.

It's only since I've been home from the funeral that I've been able to start sorting out my feelings.

The funeral home gave me and my three siblings memorial candles that lasted a week, and it was comforting to see her spirit burn on as I thought about her life and all she had meant to mine.

There was a depressing sense of finality, though, when the candle finally flickered out, and it's been painful to deal with her loss during the holidays.

My sister in New York and I both planned to visit Mom for Thanksgiving, and it ached to cancel the reservations. Every day the mail brings holiday catalogues that I receive only because of gifts I sent Mom over the years.

But there have been signs, too, that life always goes on. One of her great-grandkids and his wife announced shortly after the funeral that they're expecting a baby and another is planning to get married.

The husband of Mom's best childhood friend, Roz, who died earlier this year, sent us a photo of Mom and Roz at the 1939 World's Fair, when they were 15, gorgeous and carefree. When I'm overcome by the vision of Mom in a casket, I see that image, too.

Mom lived independently and on her own terms to the end, she knew how much her four kids appreciated her and there were no unresolved family issues when she passed.

At her funeral, the story was told about how Mom got so tired of me and my sibs fighting over a baby blanket with the satiny lining young kids love to rub that she had Dad drive us to the Santa Monica pier to throw it into the ocean.

She couldn't bring herself to do it, and we drove back home still wrestling for the blanket in the back seat.

After her service, I put the black lapel ribbon they gave me into a bag I always carry, and I often find it when I'm rummaging around. The ribbon has the same feel as that baby blanket; rubbing it brings good memories of the reassurance I always felt when Mom was around.

But once in awhile the pin sticks me and I'm reminded, as well, of the sting of losing her.

David Shapiro, a veteran Hawai'i journalist, can be reached by e-mail at dave@volcanicash.net. Read his daily blog at blogs.honoluluadvertiser.com.