Mom called me one morning a few weeks ago, and it was obvious she was crying. I waited for her to find words she couldn't. "I am crying" simply would not come to her, so she said "there are tears. Yes. There are tears in this house."
We are very close to her sister, Karla, but unfortunately we're separated by 2000 miles; she lives in San Diego, and though we talk often, we don't see each other as much as we'd like. Mom misses her.
Aunt Karla, teaching Mom to play hopscotch last fall.
They speak on the phone almost every day, but she wants to see her, to hang out with her, to be with her. I found out later in the day that Mom had also called Aunt Karla with the same message about tears. We both tried to comfort her, reminding her that at least there are telephones, and that Aunt Karla loves her very much and that we may get to see her when the weather gets warmer.
She cheered up after a day or two of comforting, some getting her out of the house, and lots of counting our blessings. We do a lot of that: counting our blessings, as we deal with this ugly disease.
But sometimes, it just gets to us, and we have tears in our houses.
