We were all home when my Mom took her last breath, as she lay in a hospice bed in the living room where we usually opened our Christmas presents. We had spent the last three days hovering around her, talking, watching, waiting. My dad, brother, sister, and I didn't know what else to do but bide our time. Mom was no longer coherent as far as we knew, but we kept talking to her, telling her we would all be okay. It's the lie you tell a dying person to try and make everyone feel better.
And then, on Easter Sunday at 6:17pm, she drew her last, gasping breath. We all stood around her and cried. Sister turned off her oxygen tube and dad called the Hospice hotline. And then we waited some more, not wanting to leave her side.
It was an hour before the nurse arrived to complete mom's death certificate, at which time we could finally call the funeral home. Another two hours went by before the funeral home arrived to take her for cremation. We stood around for hours, numb and in shock.
She had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of pancreatic cancer less than five months earlier. And even though there were only a few rays of hope within those last five months, we were all still praying for a miracle.
I was there to say goodbye, and I thought I was prepared. And I was, as much as you can be in that situation. What I was not prepared for was the waiting after her final breath, until she finally left our lives inside a nondescript white van. We watched as she was slowly loaded into the van, and we stayed outside, standing on our front lawn as we watched the van back out of our driveway and drive slowly away from our house and our lives, waving goodbye.
She was an awesome lady, mom, and friend. It's been a little more than a year since she passed and I still cannot believe that she's gone. I hear her voice in my head as clear as day, and she appears in my dreams from time to time.
I hope there is an afterlife, because I'd really, really like to give her anther hug.
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