She had a way, like most Moms do, of making everything better. Even her own death has been made more bearable for us by her attitude, her acceptance of this circumstance. But she is leaving us little by little, and soon, and with another looming family health crisis on the horizon, I desperately want someone who can make it all better for me. Now I have to figure out how to do it myself, and my inner kid is screaming a tantrum about not wanting to grow up, in spite of the fact that I'm three days away from the perpetual birthday (39).

When I was younger and still living at home, crises always got hashed out on a blue rug in Mom's office. I would usually walk in after dinner, plunk myself down in the middle of the rug with the kind of deep sigh only teenagers are capable of, and wait impatiently for her to ask me what was wrong. After a lot of verbal tugging, she always managed to shake my problem loose and hold it up to the light, where it didn't seem quite so impressive or important anymore. The fact that I'm able to discuss my feelings openly like this now is a testament to years of Mom-based talk therapy.

And as my last little bits of denial wash away these days, the thing that makes me the saddest is that our conversations, though they'll continue, will only be one-sided once she's gone. Conversation about everything under the sun has been one of the constant joys in my family, and without her, it will be like a choir missing a whole section. The song will go on, but it will never sound the same.