It has been a year or so since I conducted a session for a family—a young man, his father, and his terminally ill mother. The son knew that he might get the same genetic disorder from his mother, going by the family history. We met a month before the son would leave his home for higher studies.

The lady met me despite her severe physical limitations. Her speech was affected but still she spoke. Not only spoke but also bantered with her family members. They were more than happy to reciprocate. Jokes, not tears, filled the room.

When death knocks on the door, what, if not love, could possibly replace fear? What could possibly inspire one to look for self-improvement at that stage of life?

I still can’t get over the intense love in their unadulterated conversation.


Mother: He doesn’t use cream. I keep on telling him every day. His skin is dry. Please ask him to apply cream daily.

Son: She doesn’t walk around the house. The doctor asked her to. She doesn’t listen to anyone. If she walks, I will apply cream.



The highest form of love.

To all the mothers: Thanks for loving us so much!

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