My mother battled breast cancer for nearly three years. At first, she fought with determination. She read every article she could find, attended every appointment with a notebook full of questions, and followed each new treatment plan with quiet hope. Later, the fight became slower and heavier. Her body weakened in ways that felt cruel and unfair, but her mind never stopped working in the service of others.
Even when she could barely sit upright without help, she still worried about me and my younger brother, Benjamin. She asked if I was eating enough, if Benjamin was managing his rent responsibly, and if our father remembered to take his blood pressure medication. Even while dying, she was still parenting.
That was the kind of woman she was.
When she passed, the house seemed to freeze in time. Her lavender lotion remained on the bathroom counter. The faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the hallway. Her coat still hung by the door, as though she might return at any moment to slip it on and complain about the weather.
Continue reading…
