Tomorrow it will have been exactly two years since my mother died. The end result of colon cancer. She was 59 years old and was a few weeks shy of her 60th birthday.
From diagnosis to death was approximately 14 months. 14 very long months. Some were good. The last few were bad.
During that time I cried. Not a lot, but more than I would ever be willing to admit to. And probably more than I had cried in the previous 20 years. All that crying leading up to her death resulted in me not crying all that much when she finally took her last, ragged breath.
After that last breath, her skin went from a jaundiced yellow (her liver had all but given up functioning by this time) to a lifeless grey in a remarkably fast amount of time. I had finally witnessed that one event almost every person dreads. It was an event that I wasn't even sure I wanted to be there for. Then I stood and watched my mothers body wrapped and placed into a body bag where it was then wheeled out into a van to be taken to the funeral home.
She died at home. Surrounded, for the most part, by people that loved her. We had rented a hospital bed only a few days earlier and set it up in the dining room of my parents house so that she would not have to be in a hospital. It was surreal to see my mothers body, empty of all but the most basic semblance of life, laying in a place that was once host to many years of Sunday dinners, holiday meals and family gatherings.
The night before she died, I didn't sleep much. We all knew the end was near. I think I slept from about midnight to around 4am. I'm not really sure. I remember waking up on the basement hide-a-bed, the tv still on and my aunt sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag. I quietly made my way upstairs into the dining room to see who was still keeping watch. There sat my mom's boss, a fellow nurse, with only the light of a few candles adding a warm glow to the room. We talked briefly about my mom, but for the most part I pulled up a chair and sat quietly. Holding my mother's hand. Waiting for and fearing the moment she took that last breath. Not aware that six hours later, that even would occur.
There were things I had to do leading up to her death that no child should ever have to do. Having to pick my mother up out of bed and place her on a bedside toilet, because she was too weak to do it herself. Having to remove her nightgown so a new one could be put on her. Having to hold her while she used the toilet because she would just fall off otherwise.
Then there were things that every child should do. I planted flowers for my mother. She sat on the deck, telling me where she wanted them and in what order to plant them. On weekends I would bake muffins and cookies. I would taker her to buy pet food for the cat and dog (a dog that would unfortunately die from cancer not long before it took my mom). My brother and myself would do the yard work, rip out old shrubs and basically do anything that required manual labour.
I grieved for a year after she died. I have no idea if that's excessive or not. For the most part it was in private. A few tears here and there when I was all alone and left to my own thoughts. Dwelling on the last few days of her life. The sounds. The sights. Everything.
I still think about those last days and hours from time to time. And it still occasionally chokes me up. I don't regret anything I did or saw in that time. And in all honestly it has made me a better person.
So tomorrow, at 10:00am, I will quietly think of my mother. I will miss her greatly, her many flaws and all, but I will be thankful for the person I've become as a result of her passing.
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