The Last Goodbye

I remember holding her hand while driving to the hospital for her radiation.  We knew her last day was coming. IT wasn't a matter of if it would come because of brain cancer, it was when would it come.

I loved and hated those car drives. It was an opportunity to share precious moments while we could. We had all this time together with no distractions, time to talk.  Not much was said though.  What do you say?  She wouldn't talk about dying.  She wouldn't go there.  I tried to respect that. I had so much I wanted to say, to inquire, to seek reassurance, future counsel.  She didn't have anything to give so instead we held hands in silence and for once I tried not to lean on her and let her lean on me. For once I mothered my mother.

Months later when I was back home, I remember calling and not getting a response from my Dad for a few days.  Living across the country from my family, the phone was my only link. I was worried and knew it wasn't good. My Dad called a few days later.  He was so busy taking care of her, she was declining and he was having a hard time fielding the calls.

I was able to talk to my Mom for about twenty minutes. In the last few months our talks were only minutes long and it was hard to understand her.  This day she was very lucid and I understood her speech well.  I updated her on my life and for a moment life felt normal.  Like a normal chat with my Mom on a normal Monday afternoon.  I knew it wasn't.  When I hung up I knew the phone call was a gift. I felt so blessed and so incredibly sad in that moment.  It was my last phone call with her.

A few days later on Friday evening my Dad called to say she was worse and I should come home to say goodbye. I was on a plane ride across the country the next day.  When I arrived home on Saturday night, I expectantly walked into the family room waiting for my Mom to smile at me, glad that I was home.  Instead she didn't recognize me.  In that moment no one knew what to say.  We tried to see if she would acknowledge me but she was too tired, so I let it be.

The following week was a combination of Heaven and Hell. She was bedridden and only awake every other day.  Wednesday was her awake day.  I remember being with her on her bed.  The lights were off except her lamp. For some reason as she was laying down I was kneeling/straddling her legs.  We were face to face as she was somewhat propped up on pillows.  My Aunt Kristen had come to visit and was sitting in one of the dining room chairs we had set up at her bedside.  My Mom looked at me and asked, "How am I going to die, will I be in pain." I sat there for a moment thinking I couldn't believe this was my reality.  I then calmly reassured her that it wouldn't be painful and in detail told her how she would pass away.  I don't remember what I said but I remember being thankful for my medical background as a nurse and although I didn't know at the time where the words were coming from, I knew they were true.  It that moment she needed reassurance.  She seemed content with my detailed explanation.

The next day was Thursday and I remember thinking of all days "Please Heavenly Father don't let it be today."  You see my mother-in-law was born the same year as my mom and it was her birthday and I couldn't for the life of me imagine spending the next forty years  telling my mother-in-law happy birthday on the day my mom died.

My Mom was asleep for the majority of the day. We had her favorite music playing at the bedside.  The Lettermen CD came on and my sister Mandy and I were laying on either side of her.  We both just started to cry as we laid with her while she slept for the length of the CD.  That CD seemed to last five minutes and five hours all at the same time.  When I saw that it was fifty something minutes I didn't know what to think.  During those last few days time wasn't something that felt logical, unbendable or predictable.  Minutes felt like hours and at other times hours felt like minutes.

At one point on Thursday afternoon, she awoke and tried to tell us something.  Most of my siblings were gathered around as she tried to tell us "I'm fi...."  We couldn't decipher what she was trying to get out.  We guessed, "I'm fine?" "I'm on fire?- Are you hot Mom?"  As we tired to guess she became more frustrated.  Finally I jokingly guessed "I'm foxy?"  To which she mischeviously smiled and lifted her eyebrows up and down with a glimmer in her eye, while we all laughed.  We needed that laugh, and at that we let it go knowing that that wasn't what she was trying to say, but that  we probably weren't going to figure it out.  Months later in a quiet moment, as if my brain had been secretly working on it, the moment came to my mind with the phrase "I'm finished."  She knew.  She was trying to say goodbye.

That night I went to bed around 11:00 after she was asleep.  I remember the exhaustion that would overcome me at the end of these days.  I remember wanting it to be over, this whole watching my mother die.  I remember praying and saying I couldn't do it anymore.  I prayed that it would be over for her sake.  She was ready and I was ready for her to stop suffering.

A few hours later around 6:15 am my Dad came down to the room I was sleeping and let me know that she had passed in her sleep.  I made the most odd sound, some kind of anguished sob.  I felt guilt that I had prayed for her to pass.  I wanted to take it back, to have one more day with her, even if was full of her sleeping or broken words here and there.   She had passed around 2:00 AM on October 27th.  Dad had awoken around 6:00 AM and before he reached for her, he knew.  She was gone.

As I walked up the stairs behind my Dad with my siblings it was so odd, not knowing what to expect.  My thoughts went back to all the years we as children had traipsed up these stairs together in anticipation for Christmas morning.  That memory mixed with the real reason we were walking up these stairs was so surreal and haunting.  I wanted to go back to being a child, to being her child.  I paused, knowing that once I walked into her room it was final, I was without a mother.  A moment later I moved on knowing the real truth that I was already without a mother.