"May angels lead you in"

I have been here a week. My mom for two. I think I speak for my family when I say we've run the gamut of emotions. We've been hopeful an scared. Happy and sad.

The same couch. The same exact spot. Except this time the pit in my stomach isn't going away. It's going to turn into a hole that cannot be filled.

"May angels lead you in."

My mom is going to die. There isn't anything else they can do for her. Unless she becomes the object of a miracle, the doctors have given her 24 hours. My mom is going to die and my heart is broken.

"I never said thank you for that..."

But I got a chance. Yesterday morning, after a very difficult and pain-filled night and before the fever and situation that would exclude my mom from anymore treatment, we had an opportunity to speak with her. Each breath was a struggle, and each exhalation was accompanied by a moan. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was in a whole lot of pain. I asked for a moment alone with her.

When I smoothed her hair with my hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek, I told her I wanted to talk to her. She opened her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes, now sick and yellow. I tried not to cry when I told her she was so brave and strong. How she taught me to be brave and strong. I told her I try to make her proud, and she told me, "Always." I told her I hope I don't disappoint her, and she said, "Never." I told her that I love her, and she said, "I'll always love you."

I am sure that I am unable to fully appreciate that minute-long conversation right now. But I'm confident that in the weeks and months and years that will follow, it will probably be one of the most important conversations of my life.

A little while after this, she developed a fever and started shaking and moaning uncontrollably. It took a long time before she was drained of fluid, comforted with warm blankets and soothed back to breath-moans. Then my mom sort of regained some consciousness. I remember when is now a long, long time ago, writing about having to shave my mom's head after her first round of chemo. I thought that was going to be one of the most difficult things I would ever have to do. I was wrong. I'd shave her head from now till kingdom come if it would have prevented what happened when she tried to talk.

Keep in mind, my mom has not had anything to eat or much to drink in over a week. Sure she's been able to down part of smoothie or shake here or there, but much has had to rely on the now-removed feeding tube. Her throat is sore, and her lips and mouth are perpetually dry. Not to mention all the morphine in her system, or whatever stronger pain killers and anesthesia that never left. It's hard for her to talk. Or it was.

"I'm so sorry."

Heart sinks to knees.

"I tried so hard."

Tears burst from our eyes and hers.

"I tried."

We all told her how proud we are of her. How brave she is, how strong she is. How she has nothing to apologize for. How she did wonderfully. Perfectly. How amazing she is. How she showed us to be strong and fight. This time I can't speak for the family. But a part of me died I think.

And then another part when she struggled to say, "I love you guys." Over and over and over. "I love you guys so much. I love everyone so much."

I don't know how many times she said it. And I don't know how many times each of us assured her that we know, that we would tell everyone, that we love her too.

My biggest fear now is my mom's afraid of dying. Afraid of leaving us. We are her life, and she would do anything for us. Pardon the phrase, but it kills her to know she won't physically be here for us. After all, it kills us too.

We did our best to calm here and share our love with each other, and eventually she fell asleep. Her moaning stopped and her anxious breathing slowed. We continued to talk to her for the rest of the day and through the night. After a while she stopped opening her eyes and responding. But we still talk. We still tell her we love her. That we're proud of her.

The night nurse told us her heart is strong. We could have told her that. Even today, her heart is strong. Her vitals are even pretty good. It's her liver which has given up. Her bilirubin continues to climb. Her stomach continues to fill with fluid. I still cannot believe we have to sit here and watch her die. Watch her strong heart stop beating. I don't know how I'm going to do this.

"And if you were with me tonight, I'd sing to you just one more time..."

I can't sing to save my life. But she will be with us tonight. Just one more time. I hope and pray I won't forget to tell her a thing...

"A song for a heart so big, God wouldn't let it live."

And it doesn't look like he's going to.

I don't know why I've been writing this blog. I don't know why I've been blogging about one of the most difficult and intimate parts of my life. And I still cannot believe I'm talking about my own mother...

I don't know how I'm going to get through this. But I know she taught me well. And I have to do her proud. I told her I'd always talk to her. Always count on her. I don't think she'll mind.

I love you, mom.