One day in February 2017, I thought “My mother is dying.” She had been fighting health problems for several years; but, that day, I knew in my heart when she turned a corner.

It was, of course, true that she was dying. In fact, it was true the day she was born. When she started teaching in her 20s. When she took a retirement trip to Europe. It was true the day she gave birth to me and every day of my life to that point in time.

Yet, for the first time, the thought of her dying gripped my consciousness and wouldn’t let go.

Reality hadn’t changed, but my thoughts had.

Where your mind goes, so goes your heart.

Byron Katie teaches that it isn’t reality that makes us anxious, it’s our thoughts about reality. Her anecdote is a process of self-inquiry called The Work*: you flip a painful thought to its opposite. Then you consider ways that the opposite statement is true. Often this exercise makes your perspective shift and things seem, at the very least, more bearable.

The opposite of “my mother is dying” is “my mother is living.”

Paradoxically, both statements, in those last months of my mother’s life, were equally true. Although she was fading physically, her likes and dislikes, personality, and opinions were still as recognizable as ever.

The opposite of ‘my mother is dying’ is ‘my mother is living.’

Her face lit up when her granddaughters visited, eager to have them paint her fingernails or work with her on simple art projects.

She worried about her gray roots, asking us to set up a hair appointment for her.

She still adored chocolate milkshakes, indulging in calorie bombs from the expensive ice cream store, no longer worried about gaining weight.

She hated assisted living’s seafood casserole, theatrically spitting it out as soon as it touched her taste buds.

She loved gossip from our hometown, delivered daily courtesy of family members’ Facebook feed.

She continued to make fun of Trump.

Even her coffee addiction was still intact.  As long as I could remember, my mother always had a cup of coffee within arm’s length. She ignored her GI doctors’ recommendations to give it up.  I kidded they’d have to pry her coffee cup from her cold, dead hands. I wasn’t far from the truth. Months after she gave up feeding herself, she could still manage her cup of coffee.

I went on fervent quests for milkshakes, Facebook photos and political humor columns to read to her after dinner.

When I focused on “my mother is dying,” my stomach folded in on itself and my pulse raced. When I focused on her living, I went on fervent quests for milkshakes, Facebook photos and political humor columns to read to her after dinner.

When she lost consciousness, the nurses reminded us that she could still hear and feel our touch.

In her last hour of life, I held her hand and read her a letter from one of her best friends.

Because until her last breath, my mother was living.