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It was a very quiet night. I’d been there for a few days, helping my sister take care of my mom. After a very short hospital stay, Mom had come home on hospice. Her kidneys had shut down and, at 73, was not a candidate for a transplant. So we knew it wouldn’t be long. I’d just been up for a visit, but I didn’t hesitate to drive back up. I hadn’t been able to, mentally, be at my dad’s side when he passed. If I could help my sister by being at my mom’s, I would do it.
In the few days I’d been there, I saw quite a bit of family. My uncle. My cousins. My aunt who was also my mom’s best friend. They all wanted to have their chance to say good-bye to “Aunt P”. Sometimes Mom would be awake. More often, she’d be sleeping. I watched my step-father talk to her and kiss her forehead with tears in his eyes. I watched my sister smooth out the blanket. I pointed out to her every time I saw one of her hummingbirds at the feeder outside her window. And I talked to her.
Never about anything deep but always from the heart. At one point, I told her that I loved her.
“I love you more” was her reply.
“No you don’t,” I shot back. The look in her eyes when I said it was total and complete incredulity. “Neither one of us loves each other more. We both love each other the same. With all our hearts.”
I only had to fight back tears once. My step-father, my sister and I all stood around her bed. She was sleeping, like she’d been doing a lot. The nurse was there, telling us that she didn’t think it would be much longer at all. I had been stroking her hair, just being with her. But at that point, I had to step away so no one else would see my tears. I don’t know why, but it really hit me right then that the woman that gave birth to me, the woman I’d had a complicated relationship with my whole life but never once doubted that she loved me, was going to be gone soon. And I realized how much that thought hurt.
Many times over those days, I whispered to her that it was ok to let go. That we didn’t want her in pain anymore. That she didn’t need to worry about any of us, we’d take care of each other. I just kept reminding her that I didn’t want to lose her, but all of us would be ok.
The nurse had stopped by on that last day. She suggested we give her pain meds along with the other meds that she had, basically giving her something every two hours. She slept most of that time while my sister, my step-dad and I talked. I told my sister that I would take the night shift. She was going to try to work the next day. She deserved a good night’s rest. She had done so much.
Around 2200, it was just mom and I. My sister had gone home next door. My step-dad had gone to bed. I sat on the loveseat next to her hospital bed, just browsing through my phone. I can’t remember anything specific that I read or played. I was marking time between giving her her meds while listening to the sounds of night in the country and her rattled breathing. I’d set an alarm on my phone, set to vibrate so it wouldn’t disturb my mom. With all of the emotions running through me over the previous couple of days, I knew that I’d drop off and I wanted to make sure not to miss any of her meds.
It was around 330 that I finally nodded off. The vibration of my phone startled me awake. The silence was almost deafening. It was the first time in about 18 hours that no sound was coming from the hospital bed next to me. Even though I knew better, I went over to shake her. I could have been wrong. But I wasn’t. My mom was gone.
I called my sister so she could contact who she needed to. I woke up my step-dad. I called my husband and messaged Partner J. The three of us just kind of talked while we waited for the nurse. I don’t remember what about - probably the logistics of what we would need to do next. It was almost surreal, speaking so casually next to my mother’s body, no tears from any of us. I can’t speak for my sister or my step-dad, but I was relieved that she wasn’t hurting anymore. I had watched my dad dying for over six months. I didn’t want that for her, my sister or my step-dad. I waited with my family for the nurse, and then for the funeral home. And then she was well and truly gone.
Over the next several days, we dove into minutia. We wrote her obituary. We went through her clothes, some to come with me, some to donate. We planned her memorial service for later that month. We told those who needed to know. And for the first time in well over a year, I posted on Facebook. I wanted to get her obituary out there and let anyone who hadn’t heard otherwise know that she was gone.
I left to come back home the following Friday. There really wasn’t a lot for me to do and I knew that my husband and kids would want to be at the memorial. When we were going through Mom’s things, we found items that we wanted to memorialize, including her favorite shirt. I told my sister I’d make a shadowbox out of them. I also ordered the small urns so I could have some of her ashes.
Today, my sister has the shadowbox and the large urn. I have one of the small urns I purchased with my mom’s ashes inside. I’ll be traveling back up this spring when we bury her ashes in her grave plot. And I hope that, at that time, I will be wearing some of her ashes in the resin hummingbird necklace that I want to make so I always have a bit of her with me.
In the few days I’d been there, I saw quite a bit of family. My uncle. My cousins. My aunt who was also my mom’s best friend. They all wanted to have their chance to say good-bye to “Aunt P”. Sometimes Mom would be awake. More often, she’d be sleeping. I watched my step-father talk to her and kiss her forehead with tears in his eyes. I watched my sister smooth out the blanket. I pointed out to her every time I saw one of her hummingbirds at the feeder outside her window. And I talked to her.
Never about anything deep but always from the heart. At one point, I told her that I loved her.
“I love you more” was her reply.
“No you don’t,” I shot back. The look in her eyes when I said it was total and complete incredulity. “Neither one of us loves each other more. We both love each other the same. With all our hearts.”
I only had to fight back tears once. My step-father, my sister and I all stood around her bed. She was sleeping, like she’d been doing a lot. The nurse was there, telling us that she didn’t think it would be much longer at all. I had been stroking her hair, just being with her. But at that point, I had to step away so no one else would see my tears. I don’t know why, but it really hit me right then that the woman that gave birth to me, the woman I’d had a complicated relationship with my whole life but never once doubted that she loved me, was going to be gone soon. And I realized how much that thought hurt.
Many times over those days, I whispered to her that it was ok to let go. That we didn’t want her in pain anymore. That she didn’t need to worry about any of us, we’d take care of each other. I just kept reminding her that I didn’t want to lose her, but all of us would be ok.
The nurse had stopped by on that last day. She suggested we give her pain meds along with the other meds that she had, basically giving her something every two hours. She slept most of that time while my sister, my step-dad and I talked. I told my sister that I would take the night shift. She was going to try to work the next day. She deserved a good night’s rest. She had done so much.
Around 2200, it was just mom and I. My sister had gone home next door. My step-dad had gone to bed. I sat on the loveseat next to her hospital bed, just browsing through my phone. I can’t remember anything specific that I read or played. I was marking time between giving her her meds while listening to the sounds of night in the country and her rattled breathing. I’d set an alarm on my phone, set to vibrate so it wouldn’t disturb my mom. With all of the emotions running through me over the previous couple of days, I knew that I’d drop off and I wanted to make sure not to miss any of her meds.
It was around 330 that I finally nodded off. The vibration of my phone startled me awake. The silence was almost deafening. It was the first time in about 18 hours that no sound was coming from the hospital bed next to me. Even though I knew better, I went over to shake her. I could have been wrong. But I wasn’t. My mom was gone.
I called my sister so she could contact who she needed to. I woke up my step-dad. I called my husband and messaged Partner J. The three of us just kind of talked while we waited for the nurse. I don’t remember what about - probably the logistics of what we would need to do next. It was almost surreal, speaking so casually next to my mother’s body, no tears from any of us. I can’t speak for my sister or my step-dad, but I was relieved that she wasn’t hurting anymore. I had watched my dad dying for over six months. I didn’t want that for her, my sister or my step-dad. I waited with my family for the nurse, and then for the funeral home. And then she was well and truly gone.
Over the next several days, we dove into minutia. We wrote her obituary. We went through her clothes, some to come with me, some to donate. We planned her memorial service for later that month. We told those who needed to know. And for the first time in well over a year, I posted on Facebook. I wanted to get her obituary out there and let anyone who hadn’t heard otherwise know that she was gone.
I left to come back home the following Friday. There really wasn’t a lot for me to do and I knew that my husband and kids would want to be at the memorial. When we were going through Mom’s things, we found items that we wanted to memorialize, including her favorite shirt. I told my sister I’d make a shadowbox out of them. I also ordered the small urns so I could have some of her ashes.
Today, my sister has the shadowbox and the large urn. I have one of the small urns I purchased with my mom’s ashes inside. I’ll be traveling back up this spring when we bury her ashes in her grave plot. And I hope that, at that time, I will be wearing some of her ashes in the resin hummingbird necklace that I want to make so I always have a bit of her with me.
