Then, one Friday, my father called to tell me that my mother needed someone to spend Shabbos with her in the hospital

I’ve read many stories about heroic people who cared devotedly for an ill or infirm parent. I’m not one of them. When my mother was diagnosed with stomach cancer, at the age of 56, I entered a state of shock and denial. I didn’t stop my routine, leave my family, and spend hours by her beside. Unable to process the reality of her illness, I felt weak and scared, and kept thinking that this is not happening and can’t happen to my mother.

My brother stopped his life and spent hours by my mother’s bedside. Her sisters flew in from around the country and took turns staying with her. I visited her when I could, but I did not stay with her in the hospital overnight or for Shabbos. I couldn’t.

I had three young children at that point, and until my mother was diagnosed, she used to come over to my house every day to visit and help me with anything I needed: shopping, cooking, babysitting. She was a paragon of kindness, a pillar of strength. I wasn’t.

But then, one Friday, my father called to tell me that my mother needed someone to spend Shabbos with her in the hospital. I took a deep breath and said, “I’ll do it.”

I arrived at the hospital about two hours before candlelighting, carrying a suitcase filled with food and a large bouquet of flowers. When my mother saw me, she greeted me lovingly, but she was clearly in pain. At that point, she was not allowed to eat anything but ice chips. A drainage tube was attached to her stomach, and her discharges were being monitored. That was about all the doctors could do for her, as her disease was at an advanced stage and she was not a candidate for treatment. Seeing her in this state was horrifying to me.

I had brought so much food, I felt guilty. But my mother didn’t talk much about her inability to eat or about the pain she was in. Instead, she asked me if I had brought candles.

“Yes,” I told her.

Her face lit up. “It’s been weeks since I’ve lit candles,” she said wistfully.

I was stunned. I didn’t know any woman in the world who cherished the mitzvah of candlelighting as much as my mother did. She would set up her candles for the next Friday as soon as Shabbos ended, longing for her next opportunity to fulfill the mitzvah. All week, she was on the lookout for better, longer, nicer candles. I can’t describe to you her joy when she would find candles that were more beautiful or burned longer than the ones she had at home.

And now, my mother had gone weeks without lighting candles?