In Mom’s last month of life, after she had recovered from a very low point at the end of August, she kept saying something that made me cringe inside. “I’m working on getting better.”
I mean, I appreciated that she was trying to voice a desire to heal, to improve, to have more energy, to be able to eat better, to maybe even walk again, but the reality was that she wasn’t getting better. She was dying. We all knew it. She understood it. And yet she would say periodically that she was trying to get better.
My heart would crumble with feelings of sadness and love and a desire for my Mom to not have to say those words. I longed for a different ending to her story. I longed for my Mom to feel that she didn’t have to please us – her daughters and sisters.