today I met my mother ..

... and she’s fragile and frail.

Cancer always happens to someone else: you never think it will hit home. And yet it's here, staring evilly out at me through her tired eyes. I squeeze her hand hard and smile with as much conviction as I can muster, saying its going to be all right, but inside I’m crying out, pleading with God to make her well again.

She's always taken care of me, so as I bathe and feed her, and wash her hair, I am bewildered by having to be the care giver instead of the receiver. I cringe at every uncertain step she takes because I know how much she hates feeling so helpless. I'm shaken by her helplessness - she seems like someone else. I wonder if everyone has the same sense of disconcertion in seeing their parents grow old. I want to hold her close, hoping that if I squeeze hard enough, my strength will somehow flow into her.

When she cries as I leave to return home to Boston, I quickly turn away, not wanting to say goodbye, not wanting to face the fact that I this may be the last time I see her. I know she feels the same way, but neither of us voices our fears. I can see it in her eyes, but avert by gaze and walk away. And then I turn back to hug her - again, and again, and again.

My mother – the person whom I went to when I was afraid, whom I clung to when I was scared, whom I held as I fell asleep, who stroked my forehead gently, wiping away my silly little childhood worries.

I’m afraid, terribly afraid, but have no one to cling to. I fall asleep at her bedside, and I cannot crawl in beside her. I desperately want to hold her and have her tell me that everything will be fine, like she did when I was a child. But this time, I’m the one who is doing the telling … it’ll be all right mom, you’ll we well and strong again.