It's 11:15 p.m. and I'm sitting next to my mom in her hospital room at St. Thomas West. She's resting comfortably, at least for now. Classical music - from Channel 99 on the television - is playing quietly in the background.
There is peace in this room. Peace and comfort, as I spend what likely will be my last extended period of time alone with my mom.
The sound of her breathing is comforting but the comfort is fleeting, as I know in the next little while her breathing will become more ragged and irregular, like earlier today. It's hard to take when that happens because I don't want her to suffer or be in an distress or discomfort.
There is also love in this room. A part of me wishes I could stop time and stay in this moment forever. A moment where I could pretend my mom is going to get better, that she's going to wake up from a deep sleep, yawn and talk to me like she did four or five years ago, before the thief that is Alzheimer's disease began to steal her mind and her memories.
Another part of me is afraid to write about this moment, this night with her, as it unfolds. To preserve it. I'm afraid the memory will blind me, like staring straight at the sun. The power of the moment and the rawness of my emotions frightens me.
Now is a time to be completely in the moment. I can't afford to reminisce or look to the future. The way to keep my emotions under control and my mind on the task at hand - escorting her to the other side and saying goodbye for now - is to stay in the moment.
That's all I can do.
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