Three hours countdown

I suddenly heard mum groan. It was just after four in the morning. She twisted and turned in bed, and was unresponsive to my questions to her. "What's wrong? Mum, tell me what's wrong...?"

"I can't say..." Something was bothering her, but she couldn't (or didn't want to) say what it was. Was it a nightmare? Was it her sore arms or legs that are keeping her from sleeping? Was it "something else" bothering her (yes, I mean the supernatural...)? She just lay there, writhed her body in apparent discomfort. Her legs were so thin and twisted in a mangle like the plastic tubes coming put of the artery in her neck.

I did what I could think of to calm my down... I massaged her arms, her legs, her feet, her hands... With each rub, each stroke, each pull and push motion, I silently wished my touch would take away whatever was bothering mum. I massaged her with love, with the love of a child, with the devotion and dedication of a child who wishes nothing more than to calm his mother's mind and spirit a few hours before a major operation-- an operation which could very well determine mum's fate and course of life...

I can only imagine, only just imagine and even that is not close enough to what she must be feeling, what she must be thinking of fearing... The heat packs I prepared for her I placed under her shoulder blades. And suddenly, in a rare moment of clarity, mum opened her eyes. "Thank you... Thank you for everything..."