One of the last tangible ways I was able to tell my Mom I loved her was by rubbing lotion into her feet.
It seemed to comfort and soothe her, and the act of doing it, for whatever reason, comforted and soothed me.
The little things I could do at the end became obsessions: Swabbing her mouth out, rubbing lotion into her legs and feet, adjusting the pillows and bedding, giving her pain medication, giving her a sponge bath with warm cloths. When she was gone one of the first things I felt was the absence of those things, despite the fact that the last leg of her journey was really very short.
I literally longed to rub lotion into her feet one more time. It wasn’t that I wanted my Mom back in that state. I know she was in pain. I know it was time for her to go. But as long as I could do those little things, I still had a little piece of her to hold onto. As long as I could do those little things, I could serve her in some small measure of thanks for the 24 years that she served me.
