This Friday will mark 3 years without my mother. 

For the last few days, I have found myself on the verge of tears at random moments. Memories surfacing in the midst of a busy day; images and feelings appearing as if out of nowhere, unconnected to what I am doing in that particular moment.

I spent 5 hours in the last few weeks in the infusion clinic, while a machine, tubes, needles, and gravity worked together to slowly drip artificial minerals into my body, replenishing what apparently my body cannot produce on its own. 

I have many, many reasons to be angry and frustrated with the medical system right now (and for the last many years).

Yesterday I led a discussion on end-of-life issues in a Jewish context.

Someone thanked me for taking on such a difficult and challenging topic.

In many ways, it was not a choice.

In many ways, I was born into this work; it came to me with my mother’s milk.

“I write not so much to cause people to know things in their heads, but I write to affect their hearts. I believe that the heart is where the most potential for change lies. The seat of the will is in the heart, and that’s where I want to go.