I’ve thought about the last weekend we had with my mom over and over the last 6 months. There are moments that flash in my mind like a light turned on in a dark room and others that linger on the edges of my memory. I’ve dreaded putting words to any of it but I know deep down that I’ll want some record of that time. So, here it goes…
On an October Monday we were wondering how we could possibly continue to care for my mom at this pace and by Friday she wasn’t getting out of bed. The weeks had blurred together in a series of text messages: “How is she today?” “How long did she sleep?” “Did she eat anything?” It was painfully similar to the early days of caring for newborn babies and the similarity didn’t bring me any sense of peace or comfort. Instead, I felt all of the anxiety and rage, the mood management, and frustration that so often accompanies the fourth trimester. There were days when you hoped she would nap long enough for you to eat something or get some work done and others where you constantly checked to make sure she was still breathing because she was taking a marathon nap. Each day that passed felt like an accomplishment but we were wearing thin. It’s a tricky mind game to know that someone’s life is nearing its end but not know exactly when or how it will happen. You feel guilty for dreading the moments that humble you to your knees and you simultaneously can’t imagine what it will be like when you can’t reach over and hold her hand.
I looked back on the messages we exchanged in the final week and the shifts were dramatic. I spent hours googling what to expect at the end so we could know the signs when they came and then somehow everything started to fall into place. A little backstory though…
My mom never wanted to talk about the fact that she was dying. Never. She was diagnosed with an inoperable glioblastoma in June of 2019 and by October 2021, we still didn’t know what song she might want us to play at her funeral. I imagine people have the same misconception I did… that if you or someone you know is dying, you must talk about it. You must share stories and tell them all of the things you always wanted them to know. You must remind them endlessly how much they meant to you and ask them every question that you might want to know after they’re gone. I thought it would be so normal to acknowledge the fact that she would die, but it wasn’t. I barely said it out loud. And she didn’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t.
I never felt like there was anything I wish she would have told me and I never doubted the fact that she loved us more than anything, so I can honestly say that I never felt like I didn’t get something from her because she couldn’t openly talk about it. I did, however, feel like I missed the moments of wallowing in the sadness. Time was filled up with small talk and conversation about daily events instead of listening to songs and looking at pictures that would transport us down memory lane. That was what we wanted and when the final four days arrived, that was exactly what we got.
On Friday, October 8th, my mom wasn’t really getting out of bed so we were canceling the newly hired weekend helper and making plans to skip the football game. We ordered pizza that night and had all of the kids over to the farm to hang out and spend time with Grandma. She would open her eyes for a few moments at a time and the kids took turns hugging and kissing her before running away to play. We played music and sat in her bed telling stories. There was something about that night that felt so different from all the time before. We knew that we were nearing the end of the road and we were comforted by the fact that she wasn’t fighting so hard anymore. She seemed peaceful.
Over the course of the next few days, friends and family came to visit, the endless food train started, and my sisters and I had made camp in our childhood bedrooms. We slept at the farm that entire weekend and never considered leaving. We had amazing people step in to help watch the kids and for a few days, they gave us the space to be kids. We got to sit with our mom, play her favorite songs, hold her hands, talk to her and tell stories. We looked through box after box of hundreds of photos. We cried a million tears but we also laughed. We existed together in a sacred space, honoring her final days by creating a space full of love. It was safe, calm and beautiful. There are moments I still can’t write about, memories that we took in and quickly filed away because the pain was too raw, but I’m grateful for them all the same.
On her last day, there were many times we thought she was ready. We would go back into the room and sit with her, softly whispering in her ear and holding her hands. And every time her breathing would get stronger. She would go from huge breaks in between each breath to breathing rapidly. Every time. I finally looked at a close family friend and asked, “does she breathe faster every time we’re in here?” She smiled and said, “Yes. She doesn’t want to leave the party.” (the party was the private concert my sisters and I had been putting on for her, playing all of her favorite songs and singing our hearts out. We had some great guest stars like my dad, aunts and uncles throughout the weekend.) It took my breath away. Even though she hadn’t opened her eyes in days, she knew we were sitting by her side. She was right there with us, loving us as long as she could. Her friend suggested that we go for a drive, grab a coffee, and get some fresh air. First my mom’s sister ran to the store, then my sisters and I piled in the car and left for the first time in four days. My moms best friend left to quickly run home, and her brother and close friend stepped out to another room. Lastly, my dad stepped out to get her another dose of medicine, leaving the room without any visitors for just a moment. Her moment.
When the phone rang less than 10 minutes after we had left the house, we pulled over on the side of the road. My dad told us to come on back to the house and we all looked at each other, feeling the weight of the moment. She was gone.
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I’ve felt my mom, her spirit and presence, so deeply since she left. I look for her in moments of desperation and celebration, longing to share my life with her again. 33 years was not enough and as I inch closer towards my birthday next weekend, I’m struggling to picture starting a trip around the sun that she won’t be on. Thank God for older sisters that act a lot like extra moms.
Thank you for letting me share this incredibly vulnerable part of our journey. I’ve been so overwhelmed by the love and support of readers and I know that there is beauty in sharing the bad with the good. We’re 6 months in and it’s definitely not getting easier, but I really try to honor what I’m feeling when I’m feeling it and be present in the moments. I’m grateful to our kids for effortlessly working her into conversation every day and my dad for being a rock for all of us to lean on. I’m also eternally grateful for my patient husband who continues to roll with me through all of it. Lastly, I’m grateful to you. Thank you for reading.
Until next time,
-T-
