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I listen. I process. I question. I plead. I raise my voice. I do not back down. I can’t afford to.

I hardly recognize myself these days.

Being an advocate for someone else who is weak means being strong. It means pursuing and pushing, even when every word is delivered with a shaky undertone. It means not giving up even when I’m pressed down by unimaginable excuses, irrational explanations or just plain ignorance. It means lifting my head up every morning from a pillow of unforgiving exhaustion.

Then, there’s the thinking exhaustion. Always – forever – trying to “think through the problem” to find the solution. There has to be a solution. I just need to find it. I can find it. I will find it.

Last month was a full-on battle. My mother hit a road block. She was feeling especially weak and yet, pulled herself together to go to physical therapy. For someone with a chronic illness, just brushing your hair and getting off the couch is a win. Making it to a physical therapy appointment is an all-out victory.

Upon arriving to the therapist’s office with her arm-in-arm, I learned this would be her last “approved” visit. We were un-phased by the news. She was headed to her oncologist the next morning and we were both confident that he would approve her for continued therapy. After all, she is skin and bones and unable to walk on her own most days without a steady arm to hold onto. Needless to say, physical therapy is the one and only thing she does in a week filled with doctors, tests and drugs that tangibly and positively affects her.

Apparently, we didn’t understand. Even if her doctor approved her for continued therapy, the therapist would deny the request. “It’s a fine line,” she explained. She told us that mom should continue on with her exercises at home or at a gym, “but not alone” – never without supervision. How about skilled supervision? Ah-hem … it’s called a physical therapist.

When I challenged her on this point, she said that we were welcome to come back and work with her privately. “Oh, I understand,” I said with unveiled sarcasm. “You’re willing to accept my mother as a private patient – paying cash – but unwilling to approve her care under her current insurance even with her oncologist’s approval as therapy that helps to sustain whatever miserably quality of life she’s been able to hold onto.” Her retort, “Like I said, it’s a fine line.”

As you can probably imagine … I didn’t stop. I challenged her on every sentence she delivered. I raised my voice. I didn’t care that who was there or who was listening. I matched her sing-song voice with defense and questions. Then, it happened. My mother started tearing up … a woman who almost only cries when she’s happy or moved – not sad or frustrated.

She was having an impossible time finding her words, but I waited. As did the therapist.

She said simply, “I can’t believe this.” I couldn’t either. It seemed counter intuitive to good health, but none of that mattered. So, today we start again. Her doing physical therapy from home on her own. My Dad and I, still looking for answers — for help. We have to. We’re her advocates.