Ten days before she died, we shared one last long conversation filled with laughter, tears, tenderness, and the words that mattered most.

Today, my mom would have turned 82. But she passed away earlier this year, on February 8.

On Thursday, January 29, I stayed up late typing up a conversation I’d had with her that night because it felt so meaningful and important.

She’d been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer in mid-November and was receiving hospice care at home. Brain swelling and seizures had affected her ability to move and communicate.

I didn’t know that night would be our last extended conversation—the last time she would be able to speak in full sentences, albeit short and slow ones.

After feeding her dinner in the inclined hospital bed in the living room of my parents’ apartment, my sister (Christine, though we call her Tine) and I played ‘50s music on Amazon Music and “danced” with her, each of us holding one of her hands.

Celebrating my mom’s 80th birthday in philadelphia, two years ago.

She hadn’t opened her eyes or spoken much that day, except during the brief times she was awake for food, water, and medication. She had lost the ability to move her right arm and right leg, and since she wasn’t speaking much, we started asking yes-or-no questions and instructing her to “squeeze my hand with your left hand if your answer is yes.”

Through those hand squeezes, we learned that she needed to have a bowel movement. Our night aide, Nalik, had just arrived, and the three of us tried to position a bedpan comfortably under her, but eventually switched to adult briefs. We closed the curtain between rooms to give my mom some privacy.

When we returned five minutes later, it was clear that she had something to say. My sister took her left hand and said, “Squeeze my hand if you need something.” She squeezed.

“What do you need?” we asked.

We all felt the stress of trying to figure out what she needed, and the weight of caring for someone who was likely dying. After a long pause, she finally whispered, “Ice cream.”

We started laughing. “I can’t believe how dramatic you made that!” I said. She was smiling at us.

My sister left to return home for the night, and Nalik stepped away while I fed my mom small spoonfuls of a Dairy Queen Buster Bar.

My mom’s final meals involved a lot of ice cream.

When we returned five minutes later, it was clear that she had something to say. My sister took her left hand and said, “Squeeze my hand if you need something.” She squeezed.

“What do you need?” we asked.

We all felt the stress of trying to figure out what she needed, and the weight of caring for someone who was likely dying. After a long pause, she finally whispered, “Ice cream.”

We started laughing. “I can’t believe how dramatic you made that!” I said. She was smiling at us.

My sister left to return home for the night, and Nalik stepped away while I fed my mom small spoonfuls of a Dairy Queen Buster Bar.

Just then, I heard my sister re-enter my parents’ apartment. She came into the living room to retrieve her forgotten phone that still had the ‘50s music playing. I said, “Perfect timing! I was just showing Mommy the lights and flowers. Isn’t it beautiful, Mommy?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Tine came to the bedside next to me, leaning into both of us and scratching each of our heads. “We were just talking about love,” I told her. And I went on to tell her what I’d said about how Mommy was the reason I was doing the work I do and getting to help so many people.

My sister was moved and agreed. For a while, we were all quiet, still touching one another.

“Is there anything that you think is important to say to us right now?” I gently asked my mom.

There was silence for about 10 seconds as my mother tried to form the words. “I love you,” she said.

My sister started crying and said, “We love you so much, too. That’s why we’re here, and we want to be here. We love you so much.” I started crying too, and my mother had fresh tears on her face.

After a minute, we heard her trying to speak again.

“That’s enough,” she whispered.

“That’s enough crying?” I asked.

“Yes. No more crying,” she said.

My sister and I laughed, and I said, “OK, no more tears now.”

My sister left shortly after that. Honoring my mother’s wish for no more crying, I proceeded to describe to her in detail the other Valentine’s decorations I’d put up that day around her apartment and outside their door.

She whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m so glad I’m here, too. This is the only place I want to be,” I said.

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~Dr. Jenn Gunsaullus — Sociologist, Intimacy Expert, Relationship Speaker, & Author