I enter Mom’s room. It’s 11:17 am. She’s curled up in a fetal position in her bed, winter nightgown on and sweatshirt jacket buttoned up to her neck. She hears me, but I can tell she can’t see me. “Mom, it’s Lori.” I walk closer to her bed. A few steps away she recognizes me and her face lights up. She extends her arms and I kick off my shoes and crawl into bed with her. I scootch down so that my head is on her chest, so that she feels like the Mom, and she hugs me tightly. She tells me she’s so hot, and I unbutton her sweatshirt jacket. “Is that better?” “Oh, yes.”

She squeezes me tightly. I squeeze her back. I tell her I love her. We lay there like that for a while. 

“Well, I guess we should get up,” she says. I stroke her hair away from her face.

I help her sit up, and I suggest outfits from her closet. She vetoes a few choices before approving a colorful top with a bright yellow top beneath. Mom loves layers. 

I guide her into the bathroom. She’s not sure what to do. I turn the shower on, constantly testing it to make sure it’s warm, but not hot. Her skin is paper thin and I want her to be comfortable, but not hurt her. I help her pull her nightgown over her head. She stands there, confused. I ask her if she’d like to shower and she replies, “Oh, yes.”

I gently guide her into the shower, and ask her to hold her head back so that I can wet her hair. I massage shampoo into her long silver hair, and constantly check to make sure no soap drips into her eyes. She stands there, water running down. I take the soap and lather her arms, her torso, her body. I ask her if she can rinse off by herself. “Oh, yes.”

When she’s rinsed herself, I ask if she’d like me to turn off the water. “Oh, yes.” I hand her a towel, and she buffs herself dry. I help her into her underclothes, then the many layers that she prefers. “Would you like me to do your hair?” “Oh, yes,” she replies. 

She sits on the toilet, and I gently brush her hair, drying it on low, curling it with a round brush. 

Why am I tearing up? I want this moment to last forever. Is this what it feels like to mother? To cherish the moment, and feel so incredibly sad that you know you won’t have it again? I braid her hair and tell her she’s beautiful. “Maybe,” she says. 

I ask her if she’d like to wear earrings. “Oh, yes.” I carefully place them in her ears. “How about a necklace?” “Oh, yes.” I place one, then another, necklace around her neck. I hug her tightly, In my mind, I know that we’re steadily approaching an end. In my heart, I yearn for the magic that would allow this moment to last forever. Oh. Yes.