I think you made a slightly poor choice of words; I am waiting. I've done nothing but wait in a waiting place. Waiting in a chair, waiting for a sign. Waiting and wondering when it will be my time.

Pitiable attempt at bad poetry aside, it is not as if my mother is bedridden with illness. Barring the unforeseen, another decade at minimum I think is reasonable. Who knows after that.

Until then I am waiting. And doing nothing else but waiting.