She looked adorable standing there in her fuzzy blue hospital socks and her patterned fleece nighty – stocking cap perched precariously on her head. She was examining a Ciroc liquor bottle that she’d found on the kitchen counter – I’m sure curious at its contents. My mother, so frail and sick from pancreatic cancer. This was no longer the strong woman that I remembered. She still had the fight in her… But now, based on her appearance alone, there was no denying the fact that she was losing the battle.
Today the doctors told her that she wouldn’t make it through Christmas. This made me angry. I told my mother that they had no right to put a time stamp on her. That was for God to decide, not some presumptuous doctor. Still she cried. I’d hardly ever seen my mother cry before all of this. She was always a pillar of strength. Now I found myself with my arm around her diminutive shoulder as she shed tears. This felt so odd to me – so surreal. I hope my words got through to her. I hope tomorrow is a better day.