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, the comfort of her presence, the way her hand still recognizes mine.
What I wouldn't give for just a little more time with my parents. Losing Dad so suddenly shattered me, and now I can feel Mom slowly slipping away.
Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (PSP) is a horrible, relentless disease, stealing pieces of her each day. Motor skills have faded, communication has become difficult, and yet our connection remains.
So I sit with her, hand in hand, massaging her rigid shoulders and playing her favorite songs from a playlist we created together before PSP stole her voice. We watch shows together, and I carry the conversation for both of us now.
I've never been particularly good at that. For most of my life, I was content to listen while others filled the space. Now, I find myself wanting to hold onto every conversation I can.
The truth is, I still need my mom. There is something grounding about knowing she is still here—a place I can return to.
Being with her has a way of clarifying what matters most. Some things that once felt complicated now seem surprisingly simple.
Like many families, ours has experienced painful conflict and periods of distance. As the third of four daughters, I often found myself caught between longstanding divisions among my sisters, trying to keep the peace and navigate the space between them. Those divisions affected all of us, but they weighed especially heavily on my parents.
I always wanted to protect Mom. I could see the worry she carried. One day, before PSP had progressed this far, she asked me to promise her something: that I would let my sister know when the end was near.
Given the distance between parts of our family, she worried my sister might not know until it was too late. Looking back, I think she was asking me to be a bridge when the time came.
It was the first time we acknowledged what neither of us wanted to say out loud.
I said yes, my heart breaking as I said it.
What felt like a promise then feels like something more now. Over time, I've come to understand what she was really asking of me. Maybe this is one of those moments that asks who we want to be. A reminder that I get to decide how I show up and what I carry forward.
Mom always led with love, and I think she was asking me to do the same.
So I share the time I have with Mom, holding the phone while she FaceTimes with my sister and her children from across the country.
The past hasn't been forgotten. It has simply been placed in perspective.
If these moments give my sister and her family a chance to reconnect, to say what still needs saying, or simply to be together, then that feels like a gift I can give Mom while I still can.
Even with that perspective, I'm painfully aware of what we're all gathering around: the slow loss of someone we love.
There is a particular kind of grief that comes with watching someone disappear a little at a time. You learn to treasure what remains while mourning what has already been lost. These days, gratitude and heartbreak sit side by side.
Sometimes it feels as though every path carries the risk of disappointing someone. But grief has a way of rearranging your priorities. What once felt immovable begins to soften. In the end, I would rather live with the consequences of choosing compassion than the regret of failing to honor one of the last things Mom asked of me.
Maybe that's why I lean so much on the comfort of dogs—they're the therapy I didn't realize I needed. Each week, I bring them along to visit Mom. They climb onto her bed, cover her face in kisses, and make her laugh. Their joyful presence softens the edges of something neither of us can fix. And for a little while, the darkness lifts.
