I am surrounded by the prospect of death. We all are, of course, but for some reason, I am particularly aware of it. For 20 years, my partner suffered a chronic lung disease that made Death a constant companion in our home. We did our best to ignore him, but finally, he made his presence unavoidable.

Now I live with my 85 year old mother, and again, I feel his presence, vividly. I don’t want to have the same regrets that I had after Gail passed: Did I tell her I loved her enough? Did she know she meant the whole world to me? Why was I so grumpy on that last day?

It is hard not to be grumpy around an 85 year old. Everything takes so long. No matter how much I plan to allow her time—to get into the car, to get to the table for a warm meal—inevitably, I have not allowed enough. Do I wait to eat with her and eat it cold? Or do I eat it hot, and then just sit and watch her eat alone? Sometimes I choose her. Sometimes I choose me.

I understand why people choose to stay so busy. Every waking moment is busy, busy, busy: making coffee, getting on the metro, into the car, into the office, never-ending to-do lists. In this way, you never have to notice Death there standing in the corner. I envy that now. I used to think it was silly to stay so busy. I see the beauty of the survival technique in it.

Death is not a fun companion. Creation is the only thing I can find to quell the pain. Words, embroidery, drawing, and of course reading, which is a cocreation of sorts.

On some days, nothing helps. Bursting into tears is the body’s only response.