There were two weekends during Mom’s last summer when she declined so poorly that the doctors told us that she likely wouldn’t make it another day. Twice she defied their words. Twice she bounced back from death’s door. Twice we said goodbye (let’s be honest, we did that countless times, each and every time we saw each other or spoke on the phone) for what we thought was the last time. Twice she rallied on.
A month before she died, she had one of these weekends where it seemed very evident that she was dying. Her doctor prepared us and explained to us what to expect, as did her nurses. But Mom improved and surprised us all by living another three to four weeks.
It was painful to hear her say in those last weeks, “I’m trying to get better” because she couldn’t “get better.” She had terminal Cancer and as much as I prayed for a miracle and believed God COULD do it, I didn’t know if He WOULD do it.
Mom’s efforts in small things like brushing her teeth on her own, or eating a full meal became the everyday miracles. Pushing her around the gardens outside and sharing a blueberry muffin with her were miracles to me, to us. Every day became a gift when we knew our days with her were finite. Every day we conquered mountains.