This time of year is the season of depression, though for some depression never seems to take a day off. I marvel at anyone who can function, however minimally, in the midst of that miasma. When I had it, at my worst, getting dressed in the morning was an actual and somewhat rare achievement. I was ultimately so happy to find a drug that would help me to do that, that even if it meant horrible side effects—getting little sleep and retching at least twice daily—I didn’t care. That was all better than the ongoing charcoal gray.

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I don’t know what impelled me to tell my mother that I wanted to stop sweating the small stuff, as I sat by her bed, on the last night she was conscious.  One might call it serendipity, but I don’t believe in that any more.  When I told her, my right hand was under her left, and I felt her pinky press into me.  She could no longer speak, but she nodded and looked at me meaningfully as her finger pressed the top of my hand.

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