Last hours

When my mother died last year, it was a tragic experience for me even though she was elderly and had been sick in recent months. I lived 10 hours away and didn't realize how quickly her illness had progressed. She was good at keeping secrets about herself right up to the end.

I got the call that she was in the hospital on a Sunday afternoon. She'd been in the hospital several times in the past couple of years, but usually released fairly quickly. This time seemed different. I didn't take any chances and threw essentials into the car and headed north. I felt frantic that I wouldn't make it in time. No one had said she was dying, but I think I felt it sort of like a distant ache. The thought of not being able to see her made me feel completely desperate. So I drove as fast as I thought I could get away with on I-75 and prayed hard through my tears. I hoped that she knew I was coming.

I made it to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning. One sister was there and one was still on her way. There was no way to prepare for what awaited me in my mother's room. She looked like a child. She had been diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis only six months earlier and now could barely breathe. I tried not to appear shocked, but I was. It was all I could do not to sob for her right there.

Instead, I walked over and took her hand and said, "I'm here now, Mom. I'm here to stay with you." I spent the next several hours making sure her oxygen mask stayed put, helping her brush her teeth, wash and brush her hair, take small sips of water and small bites of food.

I hadn't slept in over 24 hours and my brain just couldn't believe this was real. I kept thinking that the doctors are going to tell me I can take her home soon. I was trying to figure out which room in my house to put her in that she'd be comfortable. I vascillated between knowing she was close to death and thinking she's gonna be fine just like always. I didn't want to see the signs that this was it. I also wondered if she knew how bad her condition was. I didn't want to upset her, so I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything I wanted to say. If I'd known these were truly her last hours on this earth, I would have. There were so many things I wanted to ask her about.

My mother, in a last burst of energy, had sent me on an errand to get some things for her from her house as if she believed she'd be fine, too. I was coming back to spend the night with her again. When I returned to her room, the nurses were all quiet just outside her room and they said they were sorry. It didn't register for me. I just smiled politely and moved toward her room. I found my sister holding my mother's hand, but the oxygen machine was silent. A priest was in the room. Mom was gone.

That scene still haunts me. I never thought it would be so hard when my parent died. We think to ourselves all along that when our parents die it will be natural because they will be old and will have led a good, long life. We think it'll be sad, but death is a part of life, right? No. It's much more impactful than that. It's hard to reconcile that my mom isn't here at all anymore. I missed my chance to say what I needed to. She'll never know.

While my sisters and I were cleaning out my mother's house, I found a picture of my mother as a cheerleader for her high school. It is the best picture of her posing with her fellow cheerleaders with their arms thrown up in the air and they have big smiles on their faces. I realized I hardly know anything about that young girl in the photo. I wish I'd asked.

I know you've heard it before, just like I'd heard it before. But, here's hoping that this time you'll really hear it. Tell your loved ones again that you love them. Listen to your parents' stories about their lives before you came along. Don't wait to say what you need to say. What if those last hours come before you're ready and then they pass you by?

Oh, that photo of my mother is sitting prominently on a table in my living room. That young girl has a smile like mine. I see her every day. I think she knows.