That was my husband in one sentence, as he was not worried about me or sad for my mother, but only concerned that his socks might become his own responsibility.
I softened my own pain so the room would stay calm and promised him that I would handle what I could for our household.
“Fine, but I am not helping with any of it, so do not come crying to me about medications or hospice,” he said while crossing his arms.
I thanked him for his permission, and I hate that I thanked him, but I was conserving my energy for the person who was dying.
My mother cried the first night I stayed with her and told me that I shouldn’t have to do this because I had my own life to lead.
“I am doing my own life right now, and you are my life,” I told her while we both sat there and wept together.
The next year became a blur of pill organizers and insurance calls as I learned how to time nausea medication and make a bed with a body still in it.
I learned how to smile in front of her and then sit in the garage afterward with both hands over my mouth so she would not hear me breaking apart.