I don’t remember how old I was when I realized my mother was ill. It seems like all I can remember is that she was always that way. There were the “good” years of course – the years where she could mask her illness with symptom-reducing medications, but those always came with side effects. Some were good, some were not so good.
I often wonder what my life would be like had my mother not suffered from a terminal illness. And I always wonder what her life would’ve been like.
There were countless hours I wept, wondering just why God allowed this particular trial to occur and why it was such a fiery one at that. But in my mother’s short 44 years, she had gained something special and it sustained her through lonely days and even lonelier nights.
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