Did you see that Anne Hathaway movie with Jake Gyllenhaal? Love And Other Drugs. I remember that dialogue exchange where at a medical conference in, I think, Chicago(?), an old man tells Jake’s character that the disease takes away everything you about love about the diseased person.

I think my mother is less like my mother and more like a sick child who wants everyone around her to know she is sick and thus be pitied. I would have to be the worst person in the history of emotional beings to judge my own dying mother. I hate that with each passing day, she behaves less and less like mother. There are days when she is the familiar stern person but most other days she’s a technologically handicapped, immature and helpless child. It gets to me, a lot, much more than before. But my relationship with my mother is much like the footprints in the sandy beaches. The footprints (the petty fights) dissolve with the gush of crashing waves (time).

Love,
Sigh.

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