Not That Day, but Late the Next

My Mom passed away late in the evening November 18, 2017.

We knew it was coming; we knew it would be soon.   There is a world of difference, though, between “soon” and “now.”

My sister and I were there, and my oldest niece, and my brother-in-law. My husband and children had been there for supper and had gone home just a few minutes earlier. My niece’s husband had brought tamales and salsa and carnitas from the nearby Mexican market.  Since my niece, who is also a nurse, had been at my Mom’s for most of the day, he brought their two young daughters for a visit, and they ate quesadillas and danced joyfully around the house until it was time for them to go.

I was full of my favorite foods, and tired, and happy that I had been out on a walk that afternoon. The sky had been clear, the air fresh, and it was a treat to be outside.  Here is how the light looked that day:

 I had just settled back into the recliner and pulled out my O Magazine when my Mom’s breathing changed.

My niece noticed first.  Maybe it was her nursing training. We were so grateful for her medical training. She got up from her chair and listened to my Mom’s breath. There had been pauses, a sort of apnea, in her breathing during the preceding days. My Mom would take a deep breath, and the next one would be a few seconds behind.  I would worry that it was the end, that her breaths had finally run out. But after a few seconds, the next one would appear. Reliable. Steady. Like it always had been. This was different, though.  These breaths were quick and shallow and seemed to stay in her mouth.  I remembered later that the hospice booklet said that at the end, many people have “fish out of water breathing.” My sister and I held my Mom’s hands. There were a few more breaths like this.  Then she stopped. Nothing. Just quiet.

My Mom died at 7:45 pm in the evening. Her death certificate reads 10:24 pm, though, because that’s when the hospice nurse arrived and made the official pronouncement. In the hours between, we sat in the family room with my Mom and tried to take it all in. We made phone calls and sent text messages out to people who needed to know. The mortuary men arrived around midnight.

Last Saturday, three weeks after she died, we had my Mom’s memorial service at the church where she attended for nearly fifty years.  Today, the Tuesday after that service, I am back at home writing at my kitchen table. I went to Costco yesterday and got the tires rotated.  I fixed dinner last night, and packed lunches for my kids to take to school. My daughter has been prepping for her final exams this week. It is almost Christmas break.  All of us have been eating and drinking and breathing for three weeks since my Mom took her last breaths.  Somehow, I am still here and part of this beautiful world.  My Mom is not.  I miss her so much.