A vaguely familiar woman walked into the house carrying a platter of macaroni and cheese and a smile that held pity. I perched myself on the couch, respectively welcoming the scent of food that had wafted in. A different woman, whom had opened the door, smiled and slowly staggered back to let the guest in. She was my mother, who lately seemed to have been hooked up to a tube that drained her color and energy. In reality, she was connected to a small filter tube that hung out of the bottom of her shirt.

A year ago she had been diagnosed. After her surgery, she was forbidden to drive, cook, clean or even lift her arms above her chest. Fortunately, this wasn’t too much of an inconvenience to her, as her arms could hardly reach her hips before she had to rest again.

She talked her sickness down. She even told people she was lucky. There was one element she could deny, however; a sickness like that? It ate away at you like water on thin bark until you were a piece of drift wood drowning in a raging river.

Despite this, she managed to keep living. What impressed me most was her acceptance of  help, even after her loss of individuality. We had to help her get dressed, shower and even walk. For weeks we had people knocking on the door, bringing dinner and groceries. This kindness was lost on my eight year-old self, and rather, I greedily awaited the hot meals that these guests brought, as the house had seemly been lacking in them.

Looking back , I can appreciate her even more. I consider her the strongest person I’ve ever met. If I had known that in the future I would see her driving us home from school and walk into the house with a plate of food on the table, I would have acted differently. But no child could look past sickness and no sane adult could hold out such hope.

My mom sometimes joked about it, but I never laughed. Sometimes I tell myself that it frightened me just as much as it frightened her. I know it’s not true, but thinking it makes me glad…I want her to feel safe.

Throughout that time, my parents poured over bills, insurance documents and medical results. There was a lot of crying, but they did their best to shield it from us. Even as a disease was eating away at her, she was protecting us .

When I think about it, I know that she was the last person who deserved anything like that, but sickness is selfish like that. I wish I could go back in time and absorb all of the sickness and stress and tears. I would walk out the door and leave their lives forever, taking it all with me.

But alas, I was a stupid eight year old and in that moment, all I cared about was the macaroni and cheese.