Monday, October 29. I go up into the attic to get down a Nativity Set that Brigid received last year as a birthday gift. Her wonderful Godmother wants to get her more pieces and wants to make sure they all match. In looking for it, I come across the box that holds all the beautiful Williamsburg ornaments that my mother collected for me for 20 years and has always given to me for my birthday so that I can hang them on the tree eight days later on Christmas Day. I grab a handful of them, clutch them to my chest, and burst into tears as I realize that I will not be getting one of these ornaments from her this year. I miss her so much and the pain today is the same as it was yesterday and will probably be the same tomorrow.

But this is not about her death. This is about her life and most especially, the last 17 months of her life.

She was diagnosed in July of 1999. I didn't know about it as we were going through an off time in our on-again-off-again relationship. She had moved to Bedford, which was 45 minutes away. a measly 45 minutes and I hardly ever went to see her. My mother always put me first and when she was diagnosed she put me first again. She wanted to get some treatment and get things under control before she told me. Then, at the beginning of November, I broke the news to her that I was pregnant. Not only was I pregnant, but also I was due in 8 weeks. I knew she wouldn't be happy and couldn't bring myself to tell her before that. The disappointment she must have felt, that her only daughter couldn't share these things with her. So she waited to tell me such devastating news and put me first yet again.

After Brigid was born, she asked that Michael and I come out and meet with her to talk about some things. We had not been meeting our financial obligations to her as Michael was out of work again. I just knew that was what this was all about. Another lecture. We dropped the kids off with my Aunt and we drove down the street to her house. She was seeing Brigid for the first time, but as usual, none of the gushing that grandparents usually do went on with Mom. I was so disappointed.

Then she broke the news to us. She had terminal, stage four lung cancer. It was inoperable and she was in the middle of her last chemotherapy and would be having radiation until May and that was it. She cried. I hadn't seen my mother cry since my father died.

My breath left my body. And at that moment I realized that God had given me a gift. He gave me time. I knew she was going to die and I knew that I had time. I didn't know how much but He was giving me some. That was good enough. At that moment I made the decision that I was going to put her first, as I had not once done in my entire life.

So our relationship began. I was 36 and she was 68 and our relationship was just beginning. How much time we lost.

We had a great last year. My mother changed in that year. She changed from a taciturn, seemingly unfeeling woman to one who loved. My mother asked for help and she never had before. And I gave it to her gratefully. I was so grateful that this woman who has never asked for help before, turned to me and would let me help her. Eventually she asked me to cook her meals, wash her hair, do her shopping, help her out of bed, change her sheets, help her to the bathroom and clean up her accidents. The morning that she died she even asked me to help her in the most humiliating of ways. This woman who had spent her entire life relying on no one but herself was asking me to help her do everything. She must have known how important it was to me that I be allowed to help her.

We talked about everything, my despair that Michael would ever get a job, my fear that she would leave before I was ready, my exasperation over Stuart's behavior in school. We even took a trip to Arlington National Cemetery to bury my father's ashes with full military honors. She held my third baby. the first time she has ever held a baby of mine. This may be my most treasured picture of my mother.

On her 69th birthday, December 14, 2000, she began hospice care. This was the last time she ever left the house. We spent three days in meetings getting it all set up but I felt so much better knowing that someone was looking in on her one other time a day. During her hospice exam I noticed how swollen her feet were and that all the skin was breaking down over her ankles. Another evening ritual is born. She allowed me to rub her feet every night with peach lotion. For 21 days she allowed me to touch her feet and legs and enjoyed it. Again, I was so grateful that I could do this for her. She would sit back on her bed and eat dinner and I would rub her feet and we would talk.

My mother died on January 4, 2001. I saw her that morning. Michael saw her at 2:00 p.m. When I walked into her house at 6:00 p.m. that night she was dead. I will never know what happened in those four hours. Sometimes I don't think I want to. I don't want to know if she was in any pain or if she said anything. I just want to remember that I spent the last 11 months of her life putting her first and doing whatever I could to make her happy. I just want to remember that my last words to her when I left that morning were to tell her that I loved her. I pray that those words gave her as much comfort in her last moments as the fact that I said them to her give me.

Paige