I, too, am in my fifties. Earlier this month, I held and kissed my mother for the last time. Mom bravely battled Parkinson’s Disease for 15 years. Every other month, I flew from central Texas, where I live, to central Massachusetts, where I grew up, to care for her and lend a week’s worth of support to my dad. Mom also had two compassionate aides, one from Ghana and one who loved my parents so much, she and her family moved into the third floor apartment of my parents’ three-decker, which was, and still is, a godsend to my dad.

I felt the pain and privilege of being with my mother when she died. Mom had quit school at 16 to support two dying parents and four siblings. She managed to get her parents out of debt, bought them their own home, and then helped pay her brother’s college tuition before landing in the hospital with thyroid cancer. She graduated from high school with her GED four years before me—and later survived two bouts of breast cancer. She was a survivor. Through it all, she maintained a sweet sense of humor and a fierce will to live.

As the demonic force of Parkinson’s steadily descended, we made sure we repeatedly said everything we wanted to say to each other. In the end, she couldn’t speak. Knowing that her hearing would be the last to go, I continued to thank her again and again, telling her how much I loved her and wished her grand adventures ahead.

Now, into a new normal I go, putting one foot in front of the other, breathing deeply, keeping friends and family close, and feeling grateful. One happy day, I hope to read your mother’s books to grandchildren, over and over, again and again. To be sure, I will sprinkle stories in of my own mother, relishing both women for their passion, their grace, and their love.