The last couple of months -- since Christmas, really -- has been incredibly difficult to me, and the diaries I wrote were raw and heartfelt and full of pain. Because I had this space, though, I was able to share the burden, just a bit. I was able to hear from others that what I was going through was normal. I got first-hand accounts of the process of dying and caretaking for the dying, through comments, email, and private messages.

Thank you to all who commented. Thank you to those who told me I was doing the right thing, even when it felt like I wasn't (blixco, I'm looking at you, and you, too, Lady Jane). Thank you to all who shared your experiences, who offered hugs (Kellnerin, mh, and many, many others). Thank you to those who donated to the American Cancer Society (and thank you to iGrrrl and her husband for getting the information out). All of you who commented made me feel a little less alone, and a little less isolated.

Those who read and didn't comment also made me feel less alone, every time I saw the "viewed" counter increase. Thank you to all of you who read and thought, "Hang in there" or "Take care of yourself" or even "Thank God it's not me." You read, you undertook the journey with me, and you let me use the husi community to lighten my load.

To all of you, and to hulver for this amazing community, I cannot thank you enough. You are more than imaginary internet people. You're damn near my family.

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I wrote a lot the past 6 weeks, but there are things I haven't written, and may never write in any detail. I haven't written about my mom's last hours. I held her as she took her last breath, wiping blackish-green fluid as it leaked from her mouth. I watched her dog (who's now lying beside me) defend her until the end, at which time she walked away, tail drooping, unsure of her position in the universe. I haven't written that those last hours and those first few minutes of death are all I could see when I closed my eyes for more than a week. I still see them more often than I'd like, but it's beginning to fade now.

I haven't written about the funeral or the aftermath -- the talking to the lawyer, the figuring out who gets what of the physical property. I haven't talked about how we want to keep the house because it was the last house my grandfather built, and because it was built for our mom. Every inch of that house has her fingerprints on it -- from the murals in the closets, to the handpainted border in the living room and over the front entrance, to the added "please" to the "Wipe Your Paws" doormat. Perhaps one day, the space will feel less like her, but for now, we just can't quite let it go.

I had great difficulty going into my mom's room; my brother J just hung out there when the rest of the house got too difficult. Brother K wanted to get Stuff Taken Care Of immediately; J and I found it deeply painful to disassemble what my mom had taken a lifetime to accumulate.

Much of what I wrote in the past six weeks has already begun to fade. There's no way I could've written what I did in the aftermath. It was all too intense to stay for long. I knew as I was writing that I'd appreciate these diaries after it was over. What I didn't anticipate were the people from the web and in real life who requested that I collect the diaries and make them available for people going through similar experiences.

When I went to buy my black suit for my mom's funeral, I was helped by a wonderful woman -- Frannie -- at the Dillard's in Wilmington's Independence Mall. Frannie was a middle-aged ex-smoker, ex-flight attendant. She was warm (but not fuzzy), and she treated me with respect. When I told Frannie what I needed the suit for, she told me that she'd lost her dad, and though it was obviously different, she could relate. "No one should have to go through this," I said, fighting tears. "But just about everyone does."

She nodded solemnly. "And you wonder why the world just doesn't stop." That was exactly it. The shared experience of loss made it easier, even though it was still impossibly difficult. We share our stories of loss, I think, but there are fewer stories about all of the horror that is nursing someone who is dying. Certainly, my mother never talked about what she went through, as she took care of her mother (dead of breast cancer) or her father (dead of old age, dementia, and a car accident). She took care of them both, more than a decade apart, and she made it look easy. She rarely complained, and she certainly never talked about how she felt. I only saw her cry when one of her children cried (we always set each other off).

I wish she had talked. I wish I could've been more prepared, and if someone can use my diaries, I'll certainly make them available. I'll edit for typos, (pseudo)name the primary characters (initials are harder to follow, I think), and post it somewhere. I got a lot from people -- mostly people I've never met in real life -- while I cared for my mom. Maybe this is something I can give back.