The room that had been hers from the day she arrived and that should never have been anything else.
During the months of treatment, I drove Mom to every appointment. I sat beside her during infusions. I learned the names of the nurses. I brought the blanket from home that she preferred because the hospital blankets were too thin and the infusion room was always cold.
I cooked for her. Not the food left on a top step. Food carried to her bedside. Food set on a tray with a napkin. Food prepared by someone who understood that feeding a person during chemotherapy is not about nutrition. It is about dignity. It is about telling someone through the act of preparation that their body, even weakened, even fighting, even failing on certain days, is worth the effort of a meal made with care.
Mom gained weight. Slowly. The color returned to her face. Her voice, which had thinned during treatment the way voices thin when the body is conserving everything it has, began to fill out again.
