I was roused from sleep with the words, "Your mother's breathing has changed." I bolted up from my makeshift bed in the living room, pulled my sweatshirt over my t-shirt and sweats and ran to the den, where my brother slept. "Wake up," I said, "Go to mom, the time is near." I raced from his bed to my dad's bedroom. "Dad, dad, the nurse said mom's breathing is changing. You need to get up."
My brother was already at our mom's bedside when I went in. He was kneeling and, gently tentative, caressing her hand. I took my place next to him. We watched her take a rasping breath in...and then out, shrinking as if each breath's effort took more life out of her. "Where is dad?" I wondered. I was torn between the "should" to go get him, to tell him to hurry, and the strong, selfish desire to stay by my mom's bedside. I consoled myself that he would be here quickly, that there was time. When I'd checked on her less than an hour earlier, her breathing had been as it had been for several days; labored and slow.
Mom took another shuddering breath in and, long moments later, she breathed out, releasing her life and her soul with the exhale. "Is that it?" "That can't be it?" my brother and I cried to each other in disbelief that the end would come so quickly. We thought we'd have more time at her side. We thought we'd have time to gather our thoughts and our composure, time to find the peace we needed to face this final stage of her life. It was not to be.
"Dad!" I shouted as I ran to his room, "You need to come NOW!"
He had taken only moments to put on clothes and run a comb through his hair, opting to honor her wearing something other than his ratty old robe. My dad didn't realize that those precious moments were all we would have. It had taken almost an hour for his brother, my uncle, to die in my dad's arms seven years earlier.
Dad rushed in and took up his position next to mom, opposite my brother. He took her hand and touched her hair, looking for life that wasn't there. Finally, he said, "Rest well, dear lady," kissed her and left the room, visibly overcome. My brother was crying, still kneeling next to mom. I was at a loss about what to do, who to comfort first.
I left the room to find my dad. We hugged and cried. He said, "I lied when I said that I could handle anything. I can't handle this." With a faint smile in my voice, I said, "I know, dad. I knew you were bluffing. No one can handle this, not without help."
Arm in arm, we moved back into mom's room. Dad resumed his place at her side. I moved to my brother and touched his back. He rose and turned to me; we hugged for long, comforting moments, without saying a word. We released our hold and I moved to the end of mom's bed to lean against the bookcase, exhausted down to my bones.
Now that the moment I'd been preparing for since her terminal diagnosis 3 1/2 years earlier had arrived, I felt adrift - lost without the purpose that had defined my days for so long but most especially during these last few weeks, days and hours. I was lightheaded from lack of sleep. My head hurt and my eyes burned but no tears came. I had cried so much already.
Awareness of our surroundings beyond the immediacy of the death bed slowly crept into my consciousness. The nurse sat quietly, unobtrusively, in the chair in the corner, allowing us the illusion of privacy. The lamp next to her, a hurricane lamp with butterflies painted on the milky glass, shed a soft, warm glow. We didn't speak; we were swamped by our own thoughts and emotions. The room was enveloped in quiet reverence.
I looked at my mom. Her face was gaunt; her skin, papery-dry and ashen, was drawn down to bone. Her mouth hung slightly open, as if another breath might pass over her lips (oh, if only!). Her eyes were partially open but no longer seeing. Who was this in my mom's bed? This was not my mother, my pretty, always-ready-with-a-smile mom. Dying had aged her beyond her 71 years; death had imposed a visage she would never have worn in life. What was this thing in my mom's bed? It wasn't her.
Suddenly, the air around me brightened. Light shimmered around the room, bouncing like sunlit ripples off water. From out of the delicate radiance, I heard my mom say, "I am okay." I was overwhelmed.
It was over in mere seconds but the light, her words - this wonderful gift - had changed me forever. That brief moment of grace gave me a glimpse forward, opened my soul and took away my fears and doubts. Now I knew why I didn't recognize who or what lay in my mom's bed. It wasn't her, not anymore. It was only a shell, rendered unidentifiable wthout her soul and her love residing within. Death released her to live on in another form, her energy merging with something wonderfully magnificent. Her gift released me back to life and granted me comfort during my grief.
My mom's shining, miraculous gift comforts me still, a full year later. I am blessed.
I love you, mom. I always will.
