On May 6th, providentially as it turns out, our whole family went away for Mother's Day weekend. The plan to go away had been in the works for a while, but by
As we gathered, we knew our time with Mom would be short. We knew this would be, barring an extraordinary miracle, our last Mother's Day with her. I think we all managed to focus on being together, being a family. I took many pictures.
In the afternoon one of my brothers and his family had to leave. The next day would be a quieter one. That evening, Husband told me that when he gone for a walk, Dad had said the doctor had said he thought Mom had three to eight weeks. Three to eight weeks.
I believe that was the hardest moment of my life.
Three weeks? Three weeks is nothing. It's a blink of an eye.
Husband tried to reassure me that it would be more likely to be eight. Or even longer. Mom had walked to the beach twice and apart from taking time to rest, looked no where near that kind of terminal diagnosis.
I don't think I breathed normally for most of May.