My Mom Said 7 Cryptic Words To Me On Her Deathbed. Here's What I Finally Realized As I Got Closer To My Own.

“I don’t want to be a gork,” I say from my hospital bed, clutching the arm of Josh, my youngest. At 42, his curls are going gray.

He squeezes my hand.

I have been in the emergency room for hours while the medical team waits and watches. Earlier, they informed me that another stroke was likely imminent, maybe only hours away. They said strokes often cascade, coming one after another, knocking out more of the brain, causing greater incapacitation, culminating in death.

I leak tears. My fear is primal.

Zac, my middle son, also gray, attempts to decipher my sounds. He patiently teaches me the word, sounding it out slowly: “Str…o…ke.”

We practice repeatedly.

Orion, my oldest, with silver patches in his beard, is texting, keeping everyone updated with my news.

I notice all my boys’ gray hair as if for the first time. My sons have done the role switch, and now they are the caregivers.

I do not like it.

“How unfair that this stroke took out language,” I attempt to say. “Why couldn’t the stroke have blocked my knowledge of particle physics? I could’ve lived without particle physics,” I try to joke, but everything is coming out garbled. I want to convince my sons (and myself) that there is nothing to be worried about.

“Isn’t it ironic that I finished an essay about aging the day before my brain exploded?” This is what I’d hoped to say, but those aren’t the words that leave my mouth. Inside my mind, I speak in coherent, clear sentences.

“The iron essay is orange,” I say, believing I’m offering lightheartedness. “Hmm?” Zac cocks his head. “Would you like some water?” He hands me a cup.

I imagine my strange combinations of words horrify my sons.

Orion smooths the blanket.

In the hallway, quick steps and loud voices billow the