Chemotherapy is the oddest thing. My mother didn’t feel the slightest bit sick until they started trying to cure her…until they started pumping her with poison to make her well. I spend time with her almost every day, but sometimes (more and more often) I don’t know what to say…
Everything I say seems wrong.
If I am happily talking about things I’ve done or plans I’ve made, that feels wrong. She isn’t getting out much these days….certainly she isn’t planning trips or buying concert tickets.
When I find myself complaining about my ordinary, day-to-day woes, their triviality hits me.
My problems are small.
I suddenly feel small.
Sometimes I just sit quietly. I listen. I know that just showing up is much more important than finding the right thing to say. Nothing feels right at the moment, and no words will make it so.
Perhaps (I hope), ‘I love you’ can be heard the loudest,
when it’s quiet.