Tempted as I am to verify that my memories are still intact, I tell myself that my mother was not backward looking. She charged on no matter what the adversity and fiercely maintained her independence. She had strong opinions, but also knew when to throw in the towel. On the other hand, when it came to her last battle, a 14-month struggle, she fought against ALS, as was her inclination, refusing to be subdued by it. Laser focused, each new problem gave her another challenge to overcome. A cane, a walker, a chair lift, a full-time nurse, and finally 24-hour occupation of a recliner. When she relocated from her usual seat at the kitchen table to the chair that cradled her with the adjustment of electric settings, we all assumed that the last step in the process would be a bed. But my mother refused it, viewing it as a death bed, and thus a certain surrender.

This played out dramatically on the last Saturday of her life. She was so weak that we encouraged her to let us move her into the hospital bed that had weeks ago been rented for this purpose. The bed was in the living room, all the while positioned next to her, waiting, as though it would be inevitably the final step. My brother, sister and I all slept in the bed, taking shifts staying up all night, as my mother would only sleep for ten or twenty minutes and then need to be shifted, given water, or have some rose water and glycerin applied to her lips to keep them from drying out and cracking.

Fighting the disease, illness became a metaphor. My mother could not outsmart this adversary. Life was presenting her its final challenge and she came to the conclusion, as the summer days shortened into autumn, that the fight was over. She was exhausting herself, and she was still losing. The last time I saw her smile and laugh was in July when she pretended to reach for a lock of hair from the head of my 18-year old nephew, Brandon. They both posed willingly for my camera and I caught that last moment of good cheer.

On the Saturday four days before she died, my mother, unable to speak, wrote notes telling me that she felt the situation had grown "urgent." With great efforts of persuasion, we managed to get her into the bed. By this point she was no longer able to take in any food or water, so we introduced water into her mouth by syringe, drop by drop. My brother brought over the DVD of "Casablanca" and we sat that evening and watched it together with my mother. Occasionally she dozed off, but mostly she was watched intently but remained quiet. She reacted most when Ingrid Bergman was on the screen. Bergman's life had its high points early on, but before she bounced back to beloved movie star status she also hit rough waters when she was banished from Hollywood because of her very public extra marital affair. The final chapter of her life ended with an early death from cancer. (Bergman's last performance, for which she was awarded a posthumous Emmy, was a portrayal of Golda Meir that somehow ties all three woman - Ingrid, Golda and my mother - together in my mind.) I know she enjoyed watching the movie with us, especially Bergman's performance. Our Casablanca evening was the last time I saw my mother. I said goodbye and told her I would see her the following Friday. After I left for the airport, she persuaded my brother to move her back into her recliner where she remained until she slipped away from us a few days later.