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.