{{product.name}}
My mother was always tired. Not the "I had a long day" kind of tired. The kind that settled in her bones by 2 PM. The kind that made her cancel plans with friends. The kind that had her napping in her recliner while her grandkids played in the next room. She called it "getting older." Her doctor called it "normal for a woman in her 60s." I called it watching her disappear. ======== Her name was Margaret. She ran a flower shop for twenty-five years. Knew every Latin name for every plant. Could arrange roses that made people cry with joy. Three daughters. A husband who still looked at her like she hung the moon. She was the vibrant one. The one who remembered every customer's name, every anniversary, the exact shade of blue her youngest daughter loved. By the end she couldn't walk to her mailbox without needing to sit down. She was 68 years old. She should still be dancing at her grandchildren's weddings. ======== Margaret started swelling in her late 50s. First her ankles. Then her fingers. By 63, her legs were so puffy she couldn't wear the shoes she loved. Her doctor said it was fluid retention. Said to cut salt. Said to elevate her feet. Said it was just part of getting older. She did everything they told her. Low-salt diet. Compression stockings. Elevation pillows. The swelling never went away. The fatigue started around the same time. The kind that made her feel like she was moving through molasses. Her doctor ran blood tests. Said everything was "within normal range." Said to get more exercise. She tried. She really tried. I'd find her walking in place in her living room, face determined, legs swollen, just trying to do what they told her. The last thing she told me before the diagnosis was that she'd woken up unable to feel her toes. Not numb. Just... gone. Like they belonged to someone else. She blamed it on sleeping wrong. A few months later the diagnosis came. ======== The cardiologist's office. A Wednesday. Her husband and I sat on
