I don’t have a name. I am not the person I used to be. My name used to be “Abi’s mom” and I cherished that name, Maybe I cherished it more than I should have. I certainly was honored to bear that name . Honored to mother such a beautiful soul.

The last 3 years saw a change in me. I became, once again, her caregiver. But, unlike when she was small, this felt somehow wrong and out of order.

I have no regrets. Though I do have painful and beautiful memories. The first time I saw her scar from the first of several major surgeries. How changed and raw and vulnerable she was, after being opened up like that. We joked about the Mercedes Benz insignia that scarred her from one side of her abdomen to the other, but it really wasn’t funny. Not at all.
Then there was the time when her newest wound wouldn’t stay closed and required a lot of care and attention. I was honored once again to offer such care, as if to lay it at her feet as a blessing. Blessing her body, blessing her soul. I also got to help her bathe and put lotion on her ravaged body. I got to hold her as she vomited from the chemo and place a cool rag on her forehead when she was too warm. Oh, the many little things I was blessed to offer.

Caregiver. I cared. I gave care.

And my mind goes to the last days of her life, just 3 weeks ago. Placing salve on her many bruises from the too many IV attempts. Running my fingers through her hair. Answering her last questions (“are there any berries?”, “can I have some bread?”, “will you help me dress?”, “will you help me pack?”) and all of the answers were “yes”. Oh, my heart.
The problem is I still care. I still long to give care.
Yet she is gone. I am not the person I used to be.
And
I have another name. Mother. Not just “Abi’s mom”, but “Ben’s mom” and “Jack’s mom”. And these names are like tethers to keep me here. They must.

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