Dear Mom

I've seen a lot of you lately. Weeping mutely next to your son or daughter. Lovingly wiping his or her face with a damp cloth. I've seen you despondent and hopeless behind the bed so he or she can't see. I've seen you put off battling your own life-threatening illnesses to be at your son or daughter's bedside 24/7. I've seen the bags form under your eyes as the days go by without sleeping in a bed, showering in a friend's shower, eating whatever those who love you bring to the bedside. I've seen the weight you've lost, the grays form in your hair, the tightening of your mouth with the doctor's entrance. I've held you while you've cried and held you while you've celebrated. I've eaten the chocolate and homemade truffles you've sent. I've privately agonized with you while professionally ministering to you as best I can. And, to my eternal shame, I've sat next to you and held your hand while I advised you to withdraw care on your daughter.

I'm amazed and awed by you. What would render me completely incapacitated puts steel in your spine. What would have me curled up on the floor in tears strengthens your resolve. I promise you that it's your tender, everpresent, palpable love that heals your child. I provide the framework and some fancy drugs. But you do the healing.

How do you go from kissing a skinned knee to seeing your baby helpless in a bed, hooked up to monitoring equipment and life support? How do you look your child in the face after I let him or her wake up and ask them why they would take all that medication without crumbling? How do you restrain your anger and censor your accusations and just let your love pour out?

Mom, you are fabulous. You are lioness and mama bear. You are iron wrapped in cashmere. Your family derives its strength and cohesion from you. You are healing and sustenance.

And I couldn't do what I do in that room without you.