My Last Day of Her Life

I wrote this five years ago and published it on my first blog, which focused almost exclusively on processing the events of my mom’s illness and my grief after her death. I’ve made modest edits to this story for clarity.

On April 19, 2011, I woke up in my childhood bed in my childhood home, alone. And immediately, I prayed to fall asleep again. I prayed to maybe wake up a few years ago, or in what I hoped to be a better future.

I put on grey pants, a T-shirt, a pink cardigan and flip flops, and pulled my hair off my face. After taking care of the dog, I left the house and headed to Starbucks. One tall medium roast, one tall white chocolate mocha please.

On the road to Blue Ash. Overcast outside, but windows down anyway, music on, like a normal day. I pulled into the hospice parking lot, grabbed the drinks and my computer bag, and went inside, tentatively making my way down the winding and surprisingly confusing hallways. There: room 307.

I pushed open the door, and my disheveled father’s eyes brightened ever so slightly when he saw the coffee. Brief conversation. No change in her condition. Probably slipping further away. Can’t leave the bed. Call the nurses if you need something. He left to go home for a shower and a few fitful hours of sleep.

I settled in the chair next to her bed and sipped my mocha while I watched her. The frail woman in the bed was a ghost of my vibrant mother. The patchy hair on her mostly-shaved head was coming in grey, a far cry from her meticulously colored thick caramel hair. No glasses on. The skin on her forearms that was once so smooth and beautiful was hanging from her bones; at their widest point, her forearms were about the size of my wrists.

I got my laptop out with honest intentions to work. I put in a solid 20 minutes over the next hour. It was too hard to take my eyes off her. If I watched her, saw each labored breath, at least I knew there was still life in her body.

Occasionally, she’d lift her arms and start to pull and tug at the hospice gown, trying to remove it. A sign she felt it was holding her back, stopping her from getting where she was going. Each time, I’d sit on the bed and catch her hands, rubbing and massaging them until they relaxed back at her sides. Retie the gown near her shoulders, and move back to my post, talking to her the entire time as though this was our usual Tuesday.

Around lunchtime, people began arriving. My best friend brought me lunch. My grandma arrived, taking a post on the other side of the bed. Two of my mom’s friends came for a visit. My aunt and uncle came up, and Dad returned.

Around 3:00, I went to get my oil changed and learned the world around you doesn’t stop just because you feel your world is ending. It was surreal sitting in Honda’s waiting area, getting my car worked on while my mom was 15 miles away in hospice care.

When I got back to hospice, a priest was just finishing the Anointing of the Sick. My husband arrived after he got off work, and my brother came up once his classes for the day were finished. Eventually, it was just the five of us – me, my parents, my brother and my husband. It was nice to be just us, just our little unit, even if it wasn’t perfect.

Eventually, Dad gave us the boot. I think he liked his alone time with her. I suspect he talked to her, saying sweet things, filling her in on the day, reminding her how much he loved her. As we left, I told her I loved her and that if she felt it was time, it was ok. Her hands were like ice, and as I moved my hands up her arms, I could feel the forearms cooling as well.

My brother, husband and I went to Bob Evans for dinner and tried to act like it was a normal day. I asked my brother if he wanted me to stay at the house again and he said no. And we all went home. And I cried and took a shower and cried more.

And then the day ended much as it’d began. I prayed to fall asleep. I prayed to maybe wake up a few years ago, or in what I hoped to be a better future. And I slept until the literal and figurative sirens went off at 1:15 and the real end began. Twenty minutes later, she left this earth.