her last words — Love, Laughter, & a Full Belly

On the first Tuesday in August I squished next to mom in her hospital bed. I threw my arms around her fragile body and we both started to cry. She looked down at me and said, “This is what we need to write about. This is what people need to know.” My mother passed on August 7th. She was 59 years old.

By then, she was looking at days. Mom was no stranger to death sentences, but this one felt more like a date of release. We knew it was her time, but knowing this did not mean letting go of her life was easy. Mom was so loved. Her connections to this earth were deeply rooted and real. She LIVED everyday of her life and breathed love into all the spaces she occupied.

Her early life was fast and hard while her later life was filled with reflection, questions of purpose, and quiet moments. I know that she was not afraid of death. She was ready to accept the inevitable; that was her purpose for the last year. It was her connections here, and the love she felt that kept her alive. Mom hated feeling quieted by circumstance. She struggled with this for nine years. She lost bits of her brain, her body, her speech, and her balance. When cancer came knocking it took her ability to trike, walk, stand, bathe herself, swallow, and eventually breathe.

Mom slept most of Tuesday until dinner rolled around. It was her favorite meal. She wanted to sit at the table and eat with us. By now her ability to swallow was disintegrating, and she inhaled most of her liquids. I could not stand the thought of her choking. Of course that woman was not going to let anyone tell her she could not drink wine. I watched her slowly pickup her glass and take a sip. Thinking about this now makes me roll my eyes and laugh, but at the time it sent me into a gasping, sobbing, and shaking panic attack. My mother could not die choking. The violent coughs that racked her body seemed seconds away from splitting her down the middle. Her body was bone collapsing on bone.

She was in limbo. One moment she was emphatically working to let go, and the next she was complaining about not getting enough food in her mouth to taste it. There was no difference between food and love to her.

She was not afraid to die, but she was afraid to leave. It hurt her to think about the experiences she will miss: never holding my children, never growing old with dad, never having more crazy holidays with her family. I did not know what to tell her then because I could not predict how I would feel. I know now that she has not left. She is right here with me, always. She holds my hand as I fall asleep at night, she laughs with me when I make dinner, she dances around the house, she runs every road and trail that I do. Every gift that I give, and meal I make holds a piece of my mother. I have not lost her. She is in more places and more people than before. She is not contained by one body but is flooded through the universe. Her body contained her spirit and now she is free.

There are moments when I fall apart. I loved that woman with everything I had. I gave all of my energy to her. Learning to focus my energy elsewhere is hard. I am beyond grateful for the people that stand by me when I fall apart. Thank you for holding me up when my legs give out, thank you for sitting on the floor with me as I sob, thank you for listening & being patient. I am proud of every person that gives care to another, and every person that allows themself to be vulnerable. My mom embodied humility. She gave and allowed others to give. It was her true purpose.