Waiting for someone you love to die is the weirdest sensation. Those words don’t even begin to encompass what it truly fees like. I had an odd feeling this morning when I tried to call Mom, but she didn’t answer. Dad told me she was giving her some medication – morphine drops (never knew those existed). I felt like something was very, very wrong. You know that feeling? Mom calls a couple of hours later and I can hear her voice cracking and hear her trying to hold back the flood of tears that want to just rush forward – all those months of tears. She could be gone within a few hours. Hours? Are you serious? The other day they said maybe a month. How do you go from having one month to live, to only a few hours? I can’t process the finality of this information. I can’t process that she will no longer (physically) exist in our lives. She is too young. Too vibrant. Too funny.

My hands are shaking. My legs are shaking. I drove to the Catholic church across the street from our house. I went to the chapel to say one last prayer. I’m kicking myself because last night I fell asleep without saying the prayer I have been for the past few days. Did I really think this prayer would keep her alive and cure her? No, but that Catholic guilt really kicks in…

So, now we wait.