When my father died, it was easier to put the words into some order, to describe the indescribable. But for Mom — a writer, the founding editor of two magazines and creator of the Museum of the Written Word — I'm having trouble. She was my mom, after all, and I was so close to her.
Last Sunday I slept on a strange little pull-out couch next to her hospital bed. I woke up throughout the night and looked at the glowing orange numbers of her pulse-oxygen meter. Admittedly not the most restful sleep.
But at about 5:30 a.m. I dozed again and dreamed that Mom and I were taking a trip together. She was driving a car — barefoot and in her hospital gown. At some point I realized this was not the best way to be tootling around the countryside. "I should take the wheel," I said to myself. And I did.
It was not a subtle dream, but it was comforting. It was helping me know that life will go on. I'm not sure exactly how, but it will.