It’s been just about 6 months since I walked into your hospital room. I still had this vague hope that maybe the things I thought were happening were wrong. The ventilator pushed out your every breath. I have medical knowledge. Cancer plus Covid is not a lucky roll of the dice. I put on all the gear, the yellow gown, hat, layers of gloves. I walked into your room and you were barely conscious. I said Mom, I’m here. Your eyes opened. You looked directly at me with such fear and comprehension for just a minute. The look in your eyes was terrifying. You died the next morning. I’m not going to tell you I’m ok because I’m not. This 6 month marker is a heavy one. A little more permanent. I feel it slowly starting to sink in. I’m not ready to accept it just yet. But it needs to be said. I love you more than you ever knew.