One Last Day, Remembered...

There was panic before my mother-in-law's visit! Mitch had just begun slamming himself into every available doorway, as he lurched his half-working flesh through the house. His entire left side was darkly bruised, on top of becoming ever more limp since the stroke. I'd never want to see my own child in such a state, I knew she did not, either. I begged him to be careful, to move slowly and only when absolutely necessary. I realize, too, that it was only ass-lead inertia that moved him from room to room; only that deep breath of courage and a heave of body -working or not- in the general target direction and eventually, after bouncing off enough obstacles, that brought him to his destination of choice. Destination of determination. Determination to cling to the last vestige of independence. Bruises or no, I could not take it away.
His mom came and saw the reality. The really fucking sad reality of her big strong boy shriveling of body and expanding of soul. For two weeks they were gifted with one another, given the luxury of her special care and his specific need for her care. It was almost as though he put on a brave face about becoming weak. He was both patient and champion. He was both sick and recovering. He was needy and fiercely independent. He was dying. I remember snapping these photos thinking, Though I don't make him oatmeal with milk, I do produce a mean scramba-legg and toast breakfast & I want it documented for posterity. Both realizing and denying how close we are to the end of days.In *this* moment, these are kids who have less than 48 hours with their dad. And they know it's a possibility. And we're all eating scramba-leggs and life is good right now.
No sense in getting all caught up on whatever, whenever when daddy's here right now and we got hot food and good laughs right in front of us! No panic in them.