The eternal words of Rus the Moavis reached down through centuries of mother-in-law/ daughter-in-law dynamics to guide me

“HI, Mom, we’re here.”

It was Erev Shabbos, and my husband, Uri, and I had tumbled straight out of Newark Liberty International Airport into the alternative universe of the hospice ward of Sloan Kettering with our few bundles. We were visiting my mother-in-law, giving my overworked siblings-in-law a desperately needed break.

“Hey, is this your biggest dream, or your greatest nightmare, to be roommates with Uri and me for the next four days?” I asked my mother-in-law.

They say every joke has a little bit of truth in it.

My mother-in-law smiled. We’d gotten the heads-up that she wasn’t speaking much these days.

Mom gave us the once-over from her hospital bed. “Uri, your shirt is kind of wrinkled, can you tuck it in?”

Even in her weakened and vulnerable state, even though she was a great-grandmother and he already a grandfather, it took microseconds for her to reaffirm the hierarchy: I’m your mother.

“Sure, Mom,” he said, and made a beeline for his tefillin.

“How are you feeling today?” I tentatively asked her.

“I want to die. I just want to die.” Her piercing gaze seared my heart.

“Okay.” Help, panic, deep breath. Now what do I say? Just meet her where she is, I told myself.

Where you will go, I will go. The eternal words of Rus the Moavis reached down through centuries of mother-in-law/ daughter-in-law dynamics to guide me.