Tonight, after a very hard day that included two falls – one of which was a full-force face plant resulting in a possible broken nose – I am sitting by the bedside of my boy.

As he sleeps, I watch for each breath, just as I did long years ago when he was a baby. Tonight, when he said he was hungry, I cut up his food and fed it to him, just as I did when he was a baby. When I asked him to take “one more bite,” the face he made took me back 50 years. And, as I put the straw to his lips for a drink, he bit down on it and didn’t understand when I told him to suck through it. Just as he did when he was first learning how straws work, when he was a baby.

Despite my age, despite having seen the death of people I love, I’m struck anew by how leaving this earthly life really is a reversal of how we grow into it in our beginnings.

I pray that his new life, which seems so imminent now, is as big an adventure for him as this one has been. But I also pray that whatever there is on the other side treats him more kindly, that it doesn’t hold the pain for him that this one has.

You see, despite the fact that he was wanted and loved, that he was winsome, that he was the first-born, that he had nearly every advantage, he wasn’t immune from the pains of living. He certainly wasn’t the perfect child; he bullied and teased his brothers, he fought with me, he lived a fast and often careless life. But his other-than-honorable discharge from the Navy broke him and kept him from jobs that he badly wanted. His happy-go-lucky nature and good looks led him into a lot of unhealthy associations, and his sometimes casual relationship to the truth drove me – and, I’m sure, his dad – nearly crazy.

But he always loved his family and was always willing to help a stranger. I often told people that if they were broken down by the side of the road, the best thing that could happen to them

would be for Martin to drive by. He loved to help and was truly puzzled by those who wouldn’t just drop everything when he needed something. How one person could embody such contradictions has always perplexed me. But that’s the story of how he has lived.

So, sleep, my boy. I hope your dreams are fanciful and not frightening. I hope your poor, tired body is finding rest. I am blessed to be your mom, and I’m honored to walk this last winding road with you, holding your hand for as long as I can.

Mothers wait.
We wait for the child to be born.
We wait for the first words, the first steps.
We wait for the first day of school
We wait for the first date, the first relationship.
We wait for the return home from his first time taking the car.
We wait to hear about love, about a job, about school…
We wait for so many things, for so many reasons.

We should never have to wait for our child’s death.

Today I have spent what will be my last Christmas with my oldest child. I have watched as he struggled in the bathroom, needing my help to brush his teeth. I have put his slippers on his dear feet, swollen with edema. And I have held back tears as he looked at me with love and said, “You do so much for me.”

I ached at his confusion over the weighted blanket his nephew got for Christmas. When I explained that it would be a weight on him, which he hates, he insisted that it would somehow elevate him, relieving the pressure of the mattress on the bed where he spends most of his time.

It was a blessed relief to laugh with him when he unwrapped the socks from his brother, when his niece asked what they said, and he boldly proclaimed, “Fuck this shit!” When his humor shines through – as it does from time to time – it heals my heart a little bit.

I wait and worry and weep and wait some more.
I am not ready.
I’ll never be ready.
Dear Lord, help me be ready.