I feel like I should write, she always told me to write when things were rough as it is very therapeutic for me. I wonder if she had any idea that she would be my biggest inspiration, the reason I feel that I could sit down and tap out a 5000 page book on these black and white keys and never even think while doing it. The inspiration that she gives me seeps out of my very being, lately in the form of tears, but before then it was in my words. She taught me to love words, not just to love reading and writing, but to really adore words, it was through my love for words that I used to get laughed at for reading the dictionary, but not by her, I think she was proud that perhaps someday such an act would turn me into a phenom of a Scrabble player.
     So here I sit writing. Writing about my mother as though she is gone already so that when I come back and read this in the future the dull ache that has materialized in my gut won't flare up with sickening realization that she is gone. The truth of the matter is that I am being selfish. My heart had never truly been broken before, I know this now that I know what a broken heart feels like, it isn't the empty stomach filled with uncomfortable and hyperactive butterflies that swells up and causes utter discomfort when a relationship goes sour. No, it in truth feels as though my heart is literally broken, and not just in terms of physical pain, but also in emotional loss. My heart is lost, I imagine it swimming around somewhere inside my chest looking for home, but there is no home to be had, home has been taken away and what is left is the wreckage and collateral damage of broken shards and lifeless blue veins.
     You see, this is where I start to feel selfish, this is where I need to remind myself that she too is at a loss here, one much greater than any I feel as though I am experiencing. She is losing life, tangible contact with those she loves the most, she is the one that will never again enjoy her favorite ice cream, or her favorite tv shows, and for god's sake she is the one that will eventually never see the sun rise or the moon all bright and silver in the night sky. She is the one that is going to miss out on Christmas Carols and her brand new couch, her 70th birthday, and the tulips which I was going to present to her on my birthday this year.
     I am the one forced to stand tall in this time of grief, I am the one that shall use this incredibly painful experience to lean on those closest to me, to call upon everyone I know that loves me and cares for me and allow myself to feel the comfort of their words and hugs and gracious offers.I am the one that will find peace in my siblings, though we are all incredibly different we all cut from the same loving cloth, it is with them that my grief will be shared and understood .

     Not a day goes by that I don't cry, this whole week has been nothing but what I wish was just a bad dream. I got the call on Monday that my mom was in the hospital, and that this time things did not look good, she had been intibated and her lung capacity had shrunken to a mere twenty percent. I have known for a couple of years now that this day would come, that eventually her poor body would just begin to wane, but the thing is you always think it will happen later than sooner. As much as I knew, I was not ready, for God's sake I am in Australia, there is absolutely nothing I can do from here. I sought comfort in those closest to me, my sister and my boyfriend. My sister whom deserves special notation here wrapped her arms around me and offered me the most heartfelt hug I think I have ever received. I think in that moment we both knew that from here on out life was going to be harder, that this is only the beginning of the long road of trials minus the tribulations that awaits us as a family. In that hug we began the process of grievance that starts long before a death that you know is inevitable. And Dustin, you have been a rock, while everything around me changes, moves, and distorts you are my constant, you are the wiper of tears, the one that holds me up when my knees want nothing more than to give out.
     I am not ready to be parentless, I am not ready to pick up the phone, dial her number and get a disconnected notice, I am not ready for life without her. I wanted her to be present at my wedding, if ever I chose to have children I wanted her to proudly coo over them, I wanted her to be proud of me when, if ever I decided what it is I want to do with my life. I know that she is not gone yet, that I should probably have a more optimistic outlook on things, which is true, however I know that from here on out things get harder and more serious. Hospital visits from here on out are no longer one week in one week out stints, but serious test-filled weeks, filled with bad news and last shreds of hope.
     Everyday I hope a little harder that things will begin to look up a little bit, everyday I think of her, so small in that hospital bed with a tube shoved down her throat, everyday I wish that she gets a tomorrow.