I was brushing my teeth when the feeling of dread washed over me. I closed my eyes, leaned against the sink, and took a deep breath.

There had been a year of preparation, of research, of looking for answers. Then two years of praying, of pleading, with any God willing to listen. None had stepped forward to help.

I had kept my worries at bay for all that time, mostly, I think, for my mother’s sake. It was obvious, from the beginning, that she was on the brink of falling apart. I kept myself sane to keep her sane, but now, on this last day, I finally lost it.

The deep breath was meant to center me, to calm me, as some of the therapists and philosophers had suggested. It didn’t work. As I exhaled, the sobbing came. A huge, painful cry, built up over more than three years, took over. Grief, held back for so long, had come, overwhelming me.

Loss was inevitable, the philosophers had said, so let go. Let go of the attachment and the fear of loss. It had helped, but understanding the need to let go and actually facing that need … Well, maybe I never really understood.

I crumpled to the floor and curled up into a fetal position, as sobs shook my body. I’m not sure how long I would have stayed there if the phone hadn’t rung.

My mother’s ring tone. I let it ring while I layed there with my eyes closed. A moment later and my phone chirped to let me know she’d left a voicemail. Time was up. It was my turn to be the parent again. Just for another day. One last day.

I sat up and pulled myself together with a few deep breaths, putting my meditative practices to use. It was a good sob, the kind that leaves your muscles aching. I stood up and stretched, then turned to face the mirror.

“Be strong for mom,” I told myself. I nodded in agreement with my own request. I looked like a mess. That wouldn’t do. It didn’t mean much to me, but it did to my mother.

I washed my face in an attempt to hide the evidence that I’d been crying. Then I took another look in the mirror. My eyes were still red, but I had sunglasses for that. I grabbed a towel and wiped my face, then noticed my toothbrush on the floor. I bent over to pick it up, then turned to rinse it in the sink.

I finished brushing my teeth, pausing to talk to myself, to prepare myself.

“Be strong for mom.”

“Last chance for goodbyes.”

“You can do this.”

I rinsed my toothbrush off again and placed it neatly in the toothbrush holder. I chuckled at myself. That hardly seemed important, but I supposed that’s what habits are for.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed my mother.

“Hi Mom.”

“I was getting ready.”

“Yes. I’m ready.”

And I realized suddenly, that I was.