|Photo from Sunday April 8, 2012 in Stirmax|
Hi, Mom. I am going to be doing this blog for a year. I am firmly committed. I have decided. It's a fully baked idea. But talking to you? That's a lifetime thing.
I believe that you decided to let go and cross over when you knew Lori (my sister) and I were not going to be there at your side.
We had been with you all week and quite a lot the week before your last week, during what the Hospice folks called the "active dying" process.
On Saturday July Fourth (2015), I had plans to play Dungeons and Dragons with Tom. But I had canceled those plans to be with you as you were still breathing and showing no signs of slowing down. We were told to watch for gaps, periods during which you stopped breathing for 5-10 seconds. We were told the gaps would grow longer. We had not seen those signs yet.
I talked to Dad around 8:30 that morning about my plans to come out there. He said you were going strong and sort of discouraged me a bit. I called back around 9-something. Dad and I discussed that it did not look like "it" would be today. He encouraged me to take a break and have some fun. He told me that if things changed, he knew how to call me.
I guess from then on you started to show the signs pretty quickly. Dad called me at 10:06 a.m. to tell me you were going. I ran to the car and started driving much too fast for the number of police on the road on the holiday. By the time I called to ask about whether I should go around Richland and whether M43 would be closed for the parade, you were gone.
You took your last breath, a heavy sigh, at 10:10 a.m. just four minutes after Dad called me.
I missed it.
I really wanted to be there for that breath. I really wanted to be holding your hand. But maybe you didn't want that. Maybe you couldn't go with me and Lori sitting there next to you. You needed to do that without us, which is funny, you know, because you rarely wanted to do anything without us. Liesel told me you might be waiting for us to be gone. She's psychic like that. I wouldn't have thought of such a thing on my own.
For years, knowing your death would come sooner than any of us wanted, Dad would kiss you goodnight and tell you that he would see you in the morning. For him, this was always true. On Friday night, he told you that same thing again. Saturday morning, you were still here but not for much longer.
I am glad Dad was there, telling you he loves you, holding your hand, saying goodbye for the last time.
I will be okay with missing your last breath. In the end, it's not that breath that matters. What's really important are all the other breaths you drew while I was with you for the 53 years before that last one.
Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you.
Talk to you tomorrow, Mom.
- Days ago = 03 days ago
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1507.07 - 8:54