Darkness and Light

and darkness again and also light...

I spent the winter solstice in a hospital with my mom.

It certainly felt like the darkest night of the year to me.

Mom has pneumonia in both lungs — and that turns out not to be something we want anyone to have.

At first, after a terrifying end-of-life talk with a surely well-intentioned physician, I catastrophized. I cried in the bathroom and at the smoothie counter and in the empty parking garage. Back in the ER, I held Mom’s hand.

Then, when she improved a bit, I rose-colored the situation: if only the good die young, my willful, petty mama is gonna live forever. After all, this is pneumonia in 2025, not plague in 1625.

So I spent the solstice ping-ponging between extremes. Darkness and light. Darkness, light.

Eventually, other sensations tiptoed in. I remember these mundanities from Dad’s chemo sessions. He’d be undergoing another round of nausea-inducing toxins, and I’d think about how my back hurt in the hard plastic chair.

Of course, I worried about him, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t silence my needs.

Similarly, this week, as my mother has battled for breath, I’ve misplaced ponytail holders, forgotten my own prescription medications, and been vexed by snow boots. I wanted to walk bare-socked, but that felt unprofessional or like I’m not someone to be taken seriously. I’m here as a medical advocate for my dangerously ill mom who keeps forgetting where she is, and she needs me to ring the nurses when a machine beeps (which is all the time) or to open her small cans of ginger ale. I feel like that role warrants shoes.

I know I sound unhinged. Half-sleeping on pleather furniture turns out to be both my kryptonite and superpower.

And I guess my point in sharing all of this is that I’ve always clung to the winter solstice. I’m both a literal and figurative fan. I like the impending daylight and the metaphor of hope.

But the truth is we’re constantly living in solstice, these moments of “sun standstill,” when light seems too fleeting to grasp. I’ve felt that this week.

And maybe there is no single darkest day or lightest one either. Every day, no matter how dark, contains the promise of light.

Mom’s eating canned peaches this morning, sitting up and feeding herself.

We’re sitting here together and waiting for more sun.

Hold your people close this week. Keep reaching for that light.

Annmarie