Six Months Since the Prognosis

Six months have passed since I was told I had six months to live.

Although my mother has lost weight, she continues to do the things she loves, like driving herself out and practicing her favorite tai chi.

Her doctor told her to come to the hospital even for the slightest discomfort, so she has been getting checked out a few times a month.
Fortunately, the hospital is nearby, about a five-minute drive away.
For now, she is still driving herself to the hospital.

She seems to have had a stomachache for the past week.
She doesn't seem to have much of an appetite, but
"I have to take my medicine," she says,
and eats a little of what she can.
Since vinegared rice seems easy for her to eat, she eats a little bit—really just a tiny bit—of things like sushi rolls, bananas, and apples.

Since my mother loves eating more than anything,
"I really want to eat all sorts of other things, though," she says.
"I've been overeating until now, so this is just right (laughs),"
we often talk about things like that.

I was told I had six months to live, but now I've entered my seventh month.
My mother says she's spending this time thinking of it as a bonus.

However,
she had vomiting in the middle of the night, which hadn't happened before.

During the day, the time she spends lying down has increased, and her appetite has decreased even further.

I knew it, but still.
That the day that must come is drawing near.

It was a day when I felt that strongly.