A large, unwanted illness visited my mother, this past month. It came into her life  without knocking, ate her food, slept in her bed, and tried to take her breath away.

The Illness is still visiting, despite the hard work of surgeons, nurses, doctors, and drugs. And despite the prayers of those who love mom. It is a considerable list of powerful people.

She actually died once and walked off into the light with The Illness, but then changed her mind, let go It’s hand, and came back. She is now struggling to free her hand of The Beast and find her way to life. She is 84 years old so she must know the way.

More than once, these last weeks, I pondered the decision she made, and what decisions might soon be made for her: when is it time to go, who is to say, and what is to be done?

I wish for the days before The Illness’ visit, the days when life was boring, normal, unexciting moments. I want to close my eyes and not think of a thing mortal. I want to nap, watch TV, root for the Panthers, eat pizza, balance my check book, and wait for the mail.

But life changes. Now the days are spent in waiting rooms, talking with doctors, making decisions, hoping for the best, and dreading the ring of the phone, all the while wondering when–and if–someone will eventually do the same for me.

A young friend asked me  how I was doing. How was I holding up?

Could he understand my answer from his point in life? I miss the ignorance of youth…

Where I will go after my death is uncertain but mom will go to heaven, even if it does not exist. Who dares tell me any different?

It is best to think about heaven for as long as possible, too, at least until the truth is revealed.

Time for nap. A short nap.

I hope I wake up.