I looked across the table at my dad.
"How are you feeling?" I asked him. "On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the best?" It was a question his doctors asked him a lot when he was hospitalized last year.
My dad thought for a minute before he replied. "Eight," he said, with a satisfied nod.
"That's pretty good," I said, at the same time my mom cried, "Eight?!"
"What's wrong with eight?" he asked.
"Why not ten?" my mom countered back. "What could be better than this?"
My dad motioned to the room and the plate of Chinese take-out that was getting cold in front of him. "Well, there's got to be room on the scale for feeling better than ... this," he said.
"Not me," my mom said, happily digging in to her noodles. "I've got my family with me and I'm eating my dinner. I'm a ten!"
She smiled at us, her eyes sparkling. And I knew ... my mom was being sincere.
We chatted some more as we ate our meals, and then we rinsed our plates and push them in the dishwasher.
"I think I'll go home now," I said, putting on my shoes.
"Oh," my mom said, her smile fading. "Now I'm an eight."
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I thought about that a lot over the next couple days, feeling happy that my mom was so content.
And I thought about it weeks later, when my mom and dad's sweet dog Winnie got sick and had to be put to sleep. I watched my mom say goodbye. She got down on the floor with her dog, wrapped her arms around Winnie's shoulders, and wept into her fur. On a scale of one to ten, I was watching my mom sink down to a one. It broke my heart.
I knew it would take her a long time to climb back up to ten. I know she's still working on it.
That's what makes my mom's heart so beautiful and so brave. I love my mom, and her great, big feelings. And I love the way my mom loves. She loves with all she's got.
If you're lucky enough to be loved by my mom, you get all of her. On a scale of 1 - 10, my mom gives a 10 every time.
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