I know that my last couple of blogs have not been filled with hope, but I did say from the beginning that this journey would be a personal one, for my own accountability, working through the things I encounter as I move forward with my goal of regaining health.

On Wednesday, I saw my mother for the first time since an ambulance took her from her home to the hospital weeks ago. At that point, she could reach for and hold my hand, and she could say a few words. She knew me, and she trusted me to do what was right for her, although I’ve kicked myself a million times since then, feeling as if I didn’t act fast enough. She has been through hell, since then, including last Friday’s diagnosis of covid-related pneumonia and a warning that the next 72 hours could be treacherous.

She has survived so far, but as I stood at her window — the only way to see her, because of Covid precautions — I realized quickly that she wasn’t aware I was there. Her aide tried to get her to look at me, to hear me, but she only made eye contact for a second. I might as well have been a tree outside her window. I stood there for a bit, trying to get her to see me and hear me, in hopes that knowing she’s not alone will keep her fighting.

I know this is the biggest battle of her life, and one she may well lose, but I will be back when I can, regardless. I will try again, knowing that some cog in her brain has stopped turning, but there’s always the possibility she hears on some level.

She is not alone.

But this blog isn’t about my mother; it’s about me. When my oldest brother died in 2015, I knew long in advance it was coming. With Mom, I never really saw a time when she would have to enter a nursing home, despite watching her decline over recent years. I have been fighting feelings of failure while learning to live without her, and at the same time, continuing the actions of loving her: caring for her home and belongings, her cat, starting the long process of choosing what goes and what stays, fixing, organizing bills, notifying services.

People talk about love languages. I don’t profess to know much about it, except that for me, things like organization and taking care of things is a way I show love. It distresses me when things are out of order. When my environment is a mess, it’s a reflection of my own mental wellbeing. When my body is a mess, it’s a sure sign I’m not dealing with things well. I spend a lot of energy finding places for things and trying to put them right, and when I do, I feel right.

I’ve talked recently about stress eating. You would think that taking on my mother’s decisions, coordinating all of her arrangements, legal matters, home, utilities, car, and even her cat, that I’d be under a tremendous amount of stress. And I am. Getting her qualified for Medicaid felt like a doctoral thesis. I spent countless hours digging, ordering replacement items, scanning documents, cross-referencing checks, compiling PDF files with supporting documents, writing letters to her connections, making endless phone calls — all the while, doing my best to juggle my own home, my business, clean my mother’s house, care for her cat, and — well — make sure I don’t short circuit. (Thanks go to my husband for his support, as well.)

All of it is a recipe for emotional disaster. A past version of me, not so many years ago, just might have felt sorry for myself enough to wallow, ignore what needed to be done, and eat myself into oblivion. I would have shut down. Knowing that I’ve had recent episodes of stress eating, I opted through this process to be a little bit more gentle on myself; I’ve been able to lose stress weight before.

And yet, here I am, a mere matter of ounces above my lowest weight during this journey. I have not looked for solace in food. If anything, my interest in food has been pretty minimal, and as busy as I’ve been, it’s been rather easy to not give in to trying to comfort myself with food. In fact, although I’ve had my ups and downs emotionally, I have remained totally in charge of everything I have needed to accomplish. I’m as totally surprised by that as anyone can be.

While my heart aches for my mother and I wish I could do more for her, I’ve remained on top of things. Her care is beyond my control, but if there’s any part of her that can still comprehend, she knows I have taken care of everything I possibly can. I have — quite oddly — felt powerful. I’ve been able to step into this role for her and do what she entrusted me to do so many years ago. If I cannot show her in person — if she is now incapable of understanding what I’m doing for her — it makes no difference; this is how my love for her manifests itself, as well as showing what love I can at a distance.

While I would never wish this situation on anyone, it has served as a reminder to me that I am at my best when I have a purpose. Time is a gift I refuse to waste.

There’s hope in that.