It takes my breath away, how fast I'm losing my mom. I always thought cancer was a slow-moving demon. I guess for some it is. Is that worse? is there a way to measure? Does it matter? I cannot adequately express to my mom how much I love her because she no longer understands what I'm saying when I talk to her. And though I know in my heart how much she loves me, I sit perched at the edge of the chair next to her bed, waiting, wanting, needing to hear what's left of her voice, tell me.

I selfishly yearn to time-travel to November 3 when my mom told me that her cancer was back and that this time treatment would manage pain but not eradicate the cancer itself. She is very wise: as soon as she understood the prognosis, she wrote out funeral instructions down to the music she wanted played. She began talking to us about her wishes. I listened, and I wrote things down, but now I wish I too had begun talking to her about my own wishes, because as it turns out, they are simple and few: I just want her to know the depth of my love and respect for her, and how incredibly sad I am that she's leaving us. And I want her to know that despite this sadness, we will all be okay. Because that's what she worked her whole life for: our happiness. I didn't say these things then because I thought it was defeatist to say things that sounded so much like goodbye. If I had known how fast and unforgiving cancer could be, I would have told her a thousand times over and not worried about how it sounded.

My dad is an amazing caretaker. Sometimes I don't know where he finds the strength to carry on. He and my brother now have the weight of the household on their shoulders, plus the extraordinary weight of caring for a loved one who, just a month ago, cared for all of us. Every time I feel a bit of her slipping away from me, I sink a little farther into this blue-gray place where words sit stubbornly in my heart and take hours or days to dislodge, where hunger feels like nothing and Christmas carols sound hollow. I think about all of this, I feel this despair. And I can't imagine what my dad must be feeling right now.

We keep walking around saying, "I can't believe this is happening." I wish I could say something more profound, but I really can't believe this is happening. I have had this dream before, I remember it. It was a long dream, complicated, the kind where you wake up really crying. And when I woke up, the relief and beatific peace that washed over me, knowing that everyone I loved was safe and sound, eventually gave way to everyday woes and worries, and I forgot to be thankful for all that I had, and sometimes, I really think this is my punishment for that. If I wake up again, I will not forget to be thankful.

"When I try to hear your voice above the storms of life, then I remember all the things that I was told." - Wanting Memories, by Keali'i Reichel