Mom's Final Chapter

Mom moved on. COVID ran her body ragged. She pushed through as best she could, much longer than anyone expected.

We told her a few key things where you could see her letting go more and more. Some things worked. Some things didn't. I learned you can't force a person to let go, no matter how much pain they may be in. My sister and I told her she had permission to go and we'd be fine. Didn't work for her. She doesn't need permission for anything. And she knew we'd be OK.

We put on music she liked. My sister got all the calming oils like lavender. We took turns sleeping on a bean bag by mom's bed. My sister got an air conditioner and installed it herself because it was too hot, and my mom was running a fever. We put ice packs on her pulse points. We very gently massaged her hands and feet, and scalp. (She liked the scalp massages. You could ever so slightly see her body relax just a bit.) We showed her photos of my son, her grandson. We zoomed with her grandson; inside, it broke my heart to know it would be the last time he would see her alive. We shared memories we had with her.

Mom was getting morphine every hour. She was a very determined person. She was known at memory care for having nine lives. We've said "see you later" to her several times over the years, and she bounced back every single time. But we knew this was it.

I told her that after she passed, she could visit us anytime, anywhere, except our bedrooms and bathrooms, because we have to have some boundaries. Hoped deep down inside, she found that funny. In life, she feared flying, and I reminded her that all flights are free after death! So she can travel the world, see Paris like she always wanted, and see her grandson anytime. I said she could be free of her body and see all her loved ones who have been gone and miss her so much. We told her she was loved, so very loved.

Her body was shutting down. The nurses, the CNAs, the Med Tech, and the hospice nurses said they didn't understand how she lived so long.

We opened the window. I'd heard of a tradition in other cultures where you leave the window open to allow a person's spirit to leave. So, we left the window open in case she decided to leave her body while we were out.

Most importantly, I think thanking her for everything she did helped her close this chapter. She needed to hear us acknowledging her struggles and let her know we loved and appreciated her for all she did for us.

We told her she would be remembered. My sister said she'd always be her co-pilot. I said I would teach her grandson about marbles and show him her stunning artwork. We said we'd keep talking with her - and since she'd be gone - she could choose to listen or just leave if she thought we were annoying. (I hoped she saw the humor in our final conversations.)

The nurses said after five days of us by her side and her not passing, it may be that our very private mom might just want privacy to pass. It hurt to think that, but the staff had seen this before. So I listened. Again, I massaged her feet and hands and saw her relax a tad more. My sister was getting more items to help make a calming environment for mom. I told her my sister and I would be out for about an hour, so if she needed space and wanted to leave her body in privacy, that was the time to do it.

I got lunch and took a ten-minute nap in my car in the desolate parking lot between a fast-food restaurant and a home goods store. It was a sad setting, perfect for how alone and scared I felt. I sat up when I heard my alarm, and - this was strange, and I'll never forget it - it felt like someone pushed my shoulders back down on the carseat. I couldn't get up. I was so tired, so I took it as a sign I could get just five more minutes of sleep. After five minutes, I drove back to mom's memory care.

On my way in I saw a nurse on her way out; she said she saw mom about ten minutes ago and assured me mom was close to passing. I walked into the lobby, and the Med Tech (we'll call her E), who we've come to know and love, said mom should be close. I told her I would call my sister to let her know. E looked at me and said she wanted to go with me. There was something strange about the walk to mom's room. It was like E knew something I didn't. Caregivers become tapped into something many of us never experience. We walked in, and all the air in the room was sucked out. We looked at each other. I talked to mom while E checked her pulse.

Mom was gone.

It seemed just five to ten minutes before I returned, mom moved on to her next adventure.

Days before her last breath, I walked into mom's room after she took a nap. As I walked in she looked up, lifted her head and said, "Thank you." Those were the last words she said to me. I felt like it was my mom's last push to let me and my sister know she was actually grateful for our efforts to care for her. For how we each showed our love for her. For how we each had our ways of fighting for her. And that we didn't screw up as much as we might question all our decisions made on this journey. At least that's how I'll interpret that memory.

This has been a journey that started around 2012. And this chapter, at least the story of her physical, mental, and emotional anguish on Earth, has come to a close.