Today my mother got her long-term prognosis: the liver and bone masses are back, and she has six months or less to live. There's another type of chemo they're going to try, but the oncologist warned us that it has less than a 10% chance of having any effect at all.

We have one last summer together, if we're lucky. By the time snow falls again, she'll probably be gone.

After the oncology appointment we went out and had a nice lunch, complete with ice cream for dessert. Her appetite certainly isn't suffering -- nor, apparently, is mine, although my stomach feels completely clenched up right now.

I am mostly numb. Every so often a white-hot ripple of emotion runs through me -- sadness, grief, incipient panic -- then fades away again. That's probably a mercy.

My mother? She says she's not sad, that she's spent the last several months getting herself ready for this moment, but still... I don't know what to do for her.

She starts the new round of chemo next Tuesday. Two days later will be her 71st birthday.

On a more positive note, several suites are coming open in our apartment building and she's called the caretaker to make arrangements to see them. If she can move into the same building as George and me, that will make things a great deal easier as she gets closer to death (as opposed to our current situation where she is literally halfway across the city).

Thank the Gods we live in Canada, where once you're registered in the palliative care system all your medications are covered as well as round-the-clock (if necessary) nurses to see to your medical needs.

I think I'm going to go and lie down for a while. I still have to get work done today, but I don't think I'm capable of it right now.