A little more than 24 hours after surgery, Kent, Mark and I sit in Mom's room.
We give her ice chips when she wants coffee and fried chicken. The big news is that she can chew gum if she wants to. Every time someone enters the room, she needs to recite her name and date of birth. It's the price to pay for pain or nausea relief .
And Mom tells my brothers, "The sheets are clean on the spare bed. You may need to find an extra quilt."
She may not be sure what day it is or realize that she has cancer. But will forever know how to care.