i slept in my mom's bed last night, and, as always, found it very comforting. there are beautiful remnants of her everywhere.

her stuff is still piled in the spare room.

she couldn't take her stuff with her, you know. and neither can you. remember that while you still can, and spend your time investing in what matters the most instead: people and relationships.

there's a sign above her bed that reads "a mother holds her child’s hand for just a short time, but holds their heart forever", and it reminds me of a time where i held her hand, too.

my sister and brother were heading on a much needed vacation, so i made the trek to ottawa to spend a week with my mom while they were away.

everything was amazing until her stomach started filling up with fluid, causing her a great deal of pain. since it had happened before, we knew the drill; we had to make a trip to emerge.

it took the whole night to drain her - 13 lbs to be exact - and i held her hand the whole time. she grabbed it and held it tightly, actually, because, well, moms get scared and need comfort, too.

we were up for 36 hours by the time she was released. we pulled up to my sister's house, and hit our next obstacle: the front step. my mom was too weak to make it to the front door, and i tried everything. encouragement. physical help. strategy. everything. nothing worked. a half an hour later (no joke), i asked her what i could do to help, to which she replied in frustration, "get a new mom".

i held back the tears. she did, too. i didn't want a new mom; i wanted her to be well. and she didn't mean it; she wanted to be well, too.

a few minutes later, remembering the step ladder that i had seen in the kitchen, i mentioned it to her and she lit up. (even as i type this i can remember the hope in her voice.) and you know something? it worked; she made it up the step and inside the door!

knowing that she wouldn't be able to make it up the next three steps required to get into the living room, i brought her a chair. my mother could fall asleep anywhere, and she did. she quickly drifted off - jacket on and all - and i sat on the steps crying out to the Lord for rest and healing for her, and strength for me. i was barely holding on. we were barely holding on.

the next night, she not only made it up the three stairs into the living room, but she conquered the whole flight of stairs between the first and second floor. i tucked her in that night, in the very same bed that i slept in last night, and told her i loved her. "love you too, paula", she said. "i hope tomorrow's better".

i'll never forget that night for as long as i live. it was hard - really hard - but it was also the night i remember the most when i feel like i can't go on and need to remember that i can. because my mom did. and because i did, and still do, without her.

love you, mom. happy you're still with me. not in the way that i wish you could be, but with me none-the-less! xo