Last Days

Dear Mom,

It’s been 7 years since I watched you take your last breath.  It’s an image that will always stick with me.  A vivid image where I literally watched the blood stop flowing through your body.

I was in denial throughout your entire battle with cancer, because I knew in my heart you would beat that horrible disease.  With every setback, I just kept asking “now what?”, and knowing whatever treatment was next we would get through it.  It wasn’t until the day I received a text saying the doctors had decided to stop treatment that it began to sink in.  I was so confused.  What did they mean by “stop treatment”?  Stop treatment for good?  I had seen you 4 days before that and would have never guessed you were in your last days.

When I made it to the hospital, the hallways were full of family and friends.  Seeing your condition as you laid in the hospital bed was significantly different than when I saw you 4 days before that.  Even though you could barely talk, you were asking for me since I hadn’t made it there from Arkansas yet.  It tore me up knowing that you had to ask where I was and that you were probably worried I wouldn’t make it in time to say goodbye.  It still hurts that it took me a few hours to get there because I thought it was just another trip to the hospital (we had done that trip many times).  If only I had understood how bad things were, I would have been there within the hour. 

I was told I needed to tell you goodbye just in case you went into a coma and didn’t wake up.  That might be when things started sinking in that you were going to lose the cancer battle.  We stayed with you through the night, and watched as you tried to rest.  But I could tell you were afraid to close your eyes, because of the fear that it might be the last time you saw us. 

Due to your condition, we opted to have medical transport to take you home for hospice care.  I decided to stay and follow the ambulance home, which is another image I will always remember.  Each time we stopped at a traffic light, I could see you through the back of the ambulance doors, and it hurt to know that we were taking you home to die.

Once you arrived at the house, we chose to setup your hospital bed in the living room so you could look out your favorite window.  Your siblings began to arrive and we decided to play Christmas music throughout the evening because it was your favorite.  The smell of roasted peanuts lingered from the kitchen because we knew it was another thing you loved.

I tried to grab a quick nap since I didn’t sleep much the night before.  But I decided to stay on the couch and not stray too far from your side.  After a short rest, I realized you hadn’t asked to sit up in a while.  It became apparent that the “days to weeks” prediction from the doctor was turning into “hours” that you had left.

There were seven of us surrounding your bedside all night, and we were scared each time we thought you stopped breathing.  You managed to hold on until morning when the rest of your siblings and their spouses arrived.  You were surrounded by those who loved you because we knew the end was getting closer.  Sunday morning quickly turned into afternoon.  And with your family still remaining nearby, we watched you take your last breath.

A lot of things changed in that moment.  That exact moment. But the love you showed me for 34 years is something I’ll remember forever.