My mother died two years ago next week. I live with my family in the house she and my father built together. And, even though I’ve downsized, I see many of her “things” every day.

In many ways, I still feel like she’s with me because the house she loved, the house where she created so many happy memories for our family, is still a part of my life. And yet, as this anniversary approaches, I find myself thinking frequently of that summer…of hospitals and hospice, of doctors and nurses and end-of-life decisions, of watching my mother die.

Sometimes I can’t believe I ever made it through those days. And then I think of the people who truly sustained me.

I think of the friend who lost her mother at age five and spent her life with her dad, lovingly taking care of him for decades, well into his 80s, in his own home, with minimal help from others. She was my lifeline, offering support and advice and great humor. She marveled at the fight my mother showed at the end of her life, reminding me that I come from a long line of strong, determined, ornery women.

I think of another friend, admittedly afraid of death, who gave up her day off to sit with me in the hospice unit and make happy small talk with me while I fed my mother mango water ice, the last (semi-solid) food she ever ate. Certainly, she would have given anything to be anywhere else on a sunny Friday. And yet, she was there.

I think of the hours I spent talking to another friend on the phone from the hospice unit while my mother slept. Despite losing her father just a month before in a similar way, she was there for me—emotionally, physically and spiritually.  I’ll never forget the pain on her face the day we buried my mother. Remembering it, even today, breaks my heart.

I think of a friend whose parents are still vibrant and healthy, who listened to me as I struggled with the enormity of the decision to put my mother in hospice care. “I love you,” she said as I wept. “Be strong.”

And I think of my best friend, my husband, who, when the end was near, whispered to my mother that he would take care of me and our children, that all would be OK. Within the hour, she quietly took her last breath as he sat beside me. Finally, she had the reassurance she needed to rest in peace.

I joke that I’m an orphan now, a 43-year-old child without parents. And yet, as this sad anniversary approaches, I can’t help feeling blessed.

As we grow older, our friends become our family. This I believe.