“You’re so patient with me,” my mother said, smiling at me from the other side of the couch. I chuckled and shook my head.

“I’m just listening to you, Mom,” I said. “I’m your buddy.”

Mom smiled. “You are my buddy.”

On August 2nd, Mom came out of thyroid surgery. I went back to see her when she woke up, wanting to be there for the woman who had been there for me on every occasion. The hospital wasn’t overly large, and I was lead back with my brother and father. The place she was in was oddly lit, the recessed lighting spaced strangely above us, creating a dim, almost gothic atmosphere around us. Still, it was well-lit, and nothing casted too long a shadow.

Mom was behind a curtain, which we entered at the beckoning of the leading nurse. I went to her side immediately. My chest swelled with unuttered sorrow, and fear, and brokenness.

There she was, the firefighter, the warrior, the strongest woman I knew, shirvelled and sunken before me. The green sheet came up to her waist, covering her legs and feet to keep her warm and likely to be more comforting. Her neck was wrapped, her hands poked with needles and tubes, and her mental facilities were lacking. It was hard not to notice the dark circles beneath her eyes, the lines drawn in her skin from the hardship she just endured. Her eyes fluttered and she spotted me by her side. She offered a weak smile as her eyes closed once more.

“Hi, sweetie.”

Mom’s recovery was rough. She spent a week in bed, each of us taking turns to go up and check on her. I kept the T.V. low so I could hear the bell we put up there if she needed us. I yelled at my brother to check on her, and then again two minutes later when he hadn’t made the move. I reminded Dad when it was his turn, only having to tell him a second time once after. I was constantly watching the clock, checking every ten to fifteen minutes. As she was a light sleeper, sneaking up the old, steep stairs was tricky. Avoiding the spots where the stairs creaked was important, and travelling over the second story and to her bedroom at the far end of the hall was difficult, especially when I forgot the large section of the hallway that creaked. If Mom was sleeping, it was of the utmost importance not to hit these spots.

Eventually, she rose, and started to find her own footing. She could be on her feet for only a few minutes at a time before she had to sit down once again. Her face was drawn and tired and exhausted. I saw my mother cry often.

A year later, on a warm Colorado afternoon, my mom and I were chatting in the kitchen before I went to class.

“What classes are you taking today?” she asked as she wiped down the counters. I put my hand on my hip.

“Um, I don’t think that’s any of your business, buddy,” I sassed.

Mom’s face lit up, humor lifting her features as she spat out howling laughter. I grinned. It was good to hear that again.

I used the term often to keep her laughing and smiling, until she picked it up and began to use it on me, as well. Over time, it became endearing and gentle, a title we’ve placed on one another to signify us, our strength, and our bond even through the dark times.

You got your name from Amanda, a woman you didn’t like. Amanda didn’t want to call you “Ash” as that was too obvious. So we all began to call you “Shlee.” You liked it, it seemed. I called you that for years. It linked us back to where we met, in Creative Writing. It reminded us of where we came from. And you always liked to dwell.