I'm up late, can't sleep. Yesterday was my mother's last day on this earth. Everyone who knew her, loved her. She was the sweetest, kindest person I've ever known. I had 50 years to be with her, and she gave me so much. I miss her already, and it's only been six hours.
They write these scripts in Hollywood...
The call came to me from my loving wife on Thursday, just before lunch time. She had gotten word that Mom's condition was such that her doctor did not expect her to make it through the day. It was not a surprise, as she had been in the hospital since July 5th. I was stunned nonetheless.
I had already decided that the 7 hour drive was too long to embark on, especially by myself, if I could not leave in the morning. I wasn't packed to go, so that was not going to be possible. I did go home for the rest of the day, to call my sister, and get ready for the trip.
Mom could not talk, at times it had been difficult for her, but she always tried to talk when I called each day that I could not be at her side with my sister. So I told Lisa I had not slept well the night before, and was not about to endanger my life to try to rush to Mom's side before she died. The nurse had said she wouldn't make it through that shift.
Thanks to Tylenol PM, I got plenty of sleep that night, and set out at 8AM, driving through Chicago, where every road is closed due to construction. The biggest delay, however, was between the last town before my destination and my mother's hospital bed. Two bridges were out (I had forgotten that from my last visit on the 4th-7th when I called Lisa while making my last fill up) and two additional flag wavers were stopping traffic in between the earlier one lane, take-a-turn each way bridges. Lisa was still at the hospital, so of course, I went straight there.
Our Dad and Lisa's husband came back to be with us about 2 hours later. In that time, I tried to talk to Mom and tell her it was ok for her to let go and end her struggle. But she wasn't done loving us yet. I wiped a tear or two from her eyes as we kept vigil. We all told her how much we love her, but we did not know if she heard, but surely knew she understood.
Dad had to leave. They don't make the chairs with an octagenarian in mind. Shortly after, Mom opened her eyes again, and I began talking to her softly. I told her again, it was ok to let go. Lisa promised her we would take care of Dad. I told her she was going to a better place, and that she had to make it ready for us to join her (just like she made this place such a warm and comfortable, though fleeting, abode). I told her she was going to get to see her brother, parents, and son again - and her pain was going to cease.
A calm peace came over her. Her labored breathing grew quiet, and relaxed. Her tears were flowing, and then I knew: She heard me! She had heard every word when she stared blankly into our faces, and as we talked amongst ourselves. I said, "I know you hear me, because you're crying." What peace now, for us, and for her! Now she knew, for the first time, that we were sure she could hear and recognize us. Surely she had heard us asking each other if it could be so. (She heard everything going on in the hallway from the day she was admitted.)
Her now quiet breathing slowed. Lisa and I both looked into her her eyes and repeated "We love you" several times. She paused, as if holding her breath, then inhaled deeply; once, twice, a third time. Then she stopped. The struggle was over. Of course, we had told her that she had put up quite a fight. Her resilience had surprised the doctor and the nurses several times.
Our loss is great. Our hearts are heavy. But she truly is in a better place. We love you Mom.
