"Sometimes even to live is an act of Courage."

Here we are again. The same couch. The same scene. My mom has 30 minutes left before they take the feeding tube out in preparation for tomorrow's surgery. I woke her up just long enough to ask if she wanted a last sip of water. She didn't. But she did whisper, "I love you."

This morning was a nightmare. The attending physician undid all the hope the oncologist gave us yesterday. I heard what he was saying from the moment he sat down but I refused to believe it. I would not swallow it. And for the life of me I couldn't figure out why he didn't just say it.

How many ways can you tell someone, "I'm sorry, but there is nothing more we can do" before you just have to say, "She is going to die."?

Apparently a lot.

How many times can you convince yourself you are composed enough to make a phonecall before you break down?

Apparently only once or so, and only after you broke down on the five or six previous phonecalls.

Hope ran out on me early this morning after being chased away by the doctor. Faith deflated and crouched down in the corner. Fear and Despair hugged me tightly while Anger patted me on the back.

How many strangers can hug you in one day while they watch you quietly fall apart?

More than you can count.

But then how many people tell you not to listen to one doctor? How many patients tell you he is wrong? How many caregivers tell you not to lose Hope?

Barb upstairs? She had three months to live nine months ago.

Mary from Maryland? She went to bed every night for weeks after saying goodbye to her family because she was supposed to die before morning, but the sun is still coming up.

Jimmy next door? His wife had only three months to live. Eight years ago.

Once I told a good friend of mine that there wasn't enough time in our lives to make all the mistakes ourselves. That's where that whole "learn from others' mistakes" come from, right? I learned a lesson today. There's not enough time to learn when it's okay not to listen.

I saw Courage today, but not beside me. Courage was standing next to my mother when the doctor (who I'm not listening to) came in and asked my mom, "Do you want us to make you comfortable, or do you want to proceed with the oncologist's plan?"

Courage put its hand on her forehead, because she didn't skip a beat when she announced she wanted to do what the oncologist planned. Courage smiled when she said she that's what she came here for.

I can't tell you how many times she dosed off during the day. How many times she grimaced in pain. How many times she smiled at my stupid jokes. How many times she tolerated all the "What?" or "Mom, I can't hear you," that I whispered leaned over her face, or the single "I don't know how to be strong" that stumbled from my lips.

Each of those times Courage was there. Sitting next to her. Standing at her side. Hands on her shoulders.

It's funny how sometimes we can't see something clearly until later. But now I'm looking at my mom sleeping in the hospital bed. They are coming to take the feeding tube out to get her ready for the next battle. But there is Courage.

Right where Courage needs to be.