Two Years

This is an exchange I had with a friend on the anniversary of Mom's death. I wanted to preserve it here, mostly for myself.

She wrote:

Oh Deb, I am so afraid of losing my mom. I think of it often. She just is not doing well more and more. She fights depression and a really bad back, so she is in pain all the time. I worry about her all the time.

I talk to her at least 5-6 times a week, and it is just worrying me or perhaps scares me, the thought of losing her. I do not know how one copes with losing their Momma.

I stayed with her after she had both hips fixed and then a month after she had her knee fixed.

My response:

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  Being without Mom is the hardest thing I've ever done. You just think that your mother is going to always be there, ya know? But, those last eleven days with her were the best, most spiritual days of my life! She was so close to the Spirit World, and yet still with us. The veil was pretty thin in that house. She had many visitors every day, and would talk and laugh with them as much as she could. She always told us that when it was her time, she didn't want any tears; she only wanted her family around her and she wanted us to celebrate her going to the next world.
  

  
  

  My brother gave her a blessing the night she died. He blessed her with the ability to choose the time of her leaving. She really wanted to see the one granddaughter that was flying in from Ohio. She promised my sister that she would wait until they got back from picking her up at the airport. They got back, Chelsea, came in, hugged Gramma and chatted with her for several minutes, then we knew it was time. She died about one minute later, with all of us standing around her bed, holding her. I had my hand on her chest and was able to feel her heart stop beating. There should have been great sadness, but all we could feel was the love of our Savior and the Spirit of our Heavenly Father in that room. It was palpable. The nurse came and tried to usher us all out so she could prepare Mom for pickup, but I insisted on staying, I closed her eyes and helped clean her up and get her ready. I wasn't sad at all. I was almost joyous. We all were.

  
  

  After the hearse left, I went down to Mom's apartment and slept in her bed, smelled her on her pillow and blankets, and honestly, all I felt was peace.

  
  

  So, no, the dying part isn't hard. It's that I can't call her. I can't go get her and take her to lunch, or to Target. It's the feel of her cool hand on my forehead. It's her laugh. 

  
  

  So, call your Mom EVERY day. I used to call Mom every night between 8 and 9. Send her a Halloween treat, then a Thanksgiving treat, then a Christmas treat. You are so lucky to still have her, I'm a little bit jealous.