Walking in Quicksand

It was late at night on September 19th when my mom slipped away from this world. She was 81 years old. Three days shy of her 82nd birthday. We had been waiting for it, actually wanting Jesus to take her, releasing her from the pain that was tormenting her. It was curious how I could want something for her, and yet be so afraid of it, and what it meant.

A year and a half ago my mom was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. My sisters and I knew then that she would not fight it with anything other than a sheer force of will. The three of us accepted her decision, and came to terms, each in our own way with what that meant.

In that time it became easy to pretend nothing was wrong, as life seemed to go on as usual, and then suddenly Mom became tired, really tired. She complained of pain that went beyond her normal arthritis, and she couldn’t pinpoint what hurt. She retreated more often to bed, and I took to searching for answers online. This had to be the cancer, and it was.

Overnight she made the decision to enter into Hospice. My heart skipped a beat as I read the requirements, “…terminal illness, when taking its normal course, would likely end in death within 6 months”. Okay, time to get my ducks in a row and get to Arizona. I suspected we would lose her somewhere close to Christmas. What I didn’t expect was that in fact, we had a week!

It all happened so quickly! There was no delay! She entered Hospice one day, and then fell twice the next, which required assistance from 911. The following day she moved into my older sister’s house, and that same day I got the call that I needed to come. Two days later I was there. That morning she had gotten up, with help, and then received “Last Rites”. The church doesn’t call it that anymore. Technically it’s called the “Anointing of the Sick”, but when you have cancer, and you’ve progressed to Hospice, we call it what it is, “Last Rites”, and it meant this was serious! By the time I arrived at the house, just after noon on Saturday, she no longer had the strength to get out of bed.

My sisters and I were blessed. We spent the next couple of days talking to Mom, and she to us. It was a struggle for her, but we were able to share memories, laugher, and tears; each of us saying goodbye in our own way. We bathed her, fed her, gave her fluids, and medication. And with each day a little more of her slipped away; one foot in two different worlds.

We meticulously gave her pain medication. Carefully recording each dose. Increasing it each day, until finally we were increasing it by the hours. We gently massaged her feet, her head, her hands, because our touch, no matter how light, would elicit a grimace of pain. Our goal of keeping her pain free was out of our hands, but we did the very best we could. Cancer, such a heartless beast!

However, in those six days we gave Mom the best gift we could ever give her. She died how she wanted. She was at home, with her three daughters by her side. Her hospital bed in the family room where we sat, talked, ate, prayed…all the things you normally would do as a family. We physically and spiritually took care of her. We gave her 100% of ourselves, until Thursday night, at 11:00 p.m. when she took her final step from this world into the next.

And now I’m in a dense fog. I can’t focus. I have no energy. Every task makes me feel like I’m walking in quicksand. My feet being sucked from beneath me. I’m having anxiety attacks. I cry a lot, feel out of control, and oh so sad. This is the darkness of grief. Grief will not be cheated. It will not be ignored. I cannot hide. I am forced to face it head on. In time I will move through it, for grief is a desert to cross, not a place to live. I will never get over losing my mom, just like I never got over losing my dad 17 years ago. But to honor them, I will get on with it, and continue to live as long as I’m alive.