Time Feels Fragile

Lately, I find myself measuring days in smaller ways — in hand squeezes, in breaths, in the time it takes for Mom’s eyes to meet mine. There is so much I wish I could pause — conversations, ordinary mornings, the way her hand still recognizes mine.

Time feels uncertain, slipping through my fingers faster than I can grasp it. All I want is more of it with my parents. Losing Dad so suddenly shattered me, and now I can feel Mom slowly slipping away.

Mom’s condition is progressing quickly now. Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (PSP) is a horrible, relentless disease, stealing pieces of her each day. Mom’s motor skills have faded, yet our quiet connection remains. So I sit with her, hand in hand, massaging her rigid shoulders, savoring the presence we still share together. Even in the stillness, love finds a way to speak.

It’s a heartbreaking reality. Maybe that’s why I’ve been leaning so much on the comfort of dogs—they’re the therapy I didn’t realize I needed. I bring them to see Mom, and for a little while, in their joyful presence, the darkness lifts.