When I get to Mom’s door I take a deep breath and cross my fingers. Will she know me? The gentle music humming in the background does nothing to ease my tension. My heart is beating a little faster, my stomach twisting into a knot. This is not how it was supposed to be. I try to put a smile on my face but it’s hard. Hard when I know that what’s behind this door will crush me as it does every time. Mom lying on her sanitized bed, surrounded by photos, flowers, a beaker with some Disney character smiling on it, unaware of anything. Reduced to the package she came in; a body that is also beginning to fade.

The doctors say her breathing is becoming more labored, her swallow weakening, her legs no longer able to hold her up. The little things she could do, like hold a spoon, or run a brush through her hair, have all disappeared over the past few weeks. Getting her mouth to open is the new goal. When that goes, we’re all in trouble.

A nurse stands with her back to me when I enter the room, blocking my view of Mom and glancing around when she hears the door. For a brief moment I pause, waiting for her reaction. If everything is okay, the nurse will have a smile and a big hello. If things are bad today, she will whisper gently. I know these signs off by heart now.

Holding my breath, I wait while she presses the controller on the bed, moving Mom into a raised position. When she is lying flat she looks like a corpse and it scares the hell out of me.

‘Hello Rebecca,’ the nurse says, nice and loud and cheery, easing my stress and letting Mom know that I have arrived.

‘Nancy, Rebecca is here.’ I tilt my head to see Mom but there’s no response. Her glossy eyes are locked on the nurse, looking at her like she’s trying to figure out what she is.

‘Your daughter is here… Rebecca is here.’ I fix my eyes on Mom, willing a reaction. Know me, Mom. Please. Know me. Her lips pinch together. Slowly she moves her head in my direction, lifting my heart in the process. A smile moves the corners of her sagging face, releasing the chains that grip my body. I want to jump around the room and shout out loud. She knows me. She knows me.

‘You look lovely today, Mom,’ I lie. The tide has gone out on my mother’s eyes. They were the first thing I saw each morning when I was a little girl, those eyes, the color of the sea. ‘Good morning, baby,’ she would say.