When we take away the shock and grief in the moment of losing someone close to us, what’s left is a profound opportunity to witness one of life’s miracles.
I arrived at her hospital bed after a six-hour plane ride. Her demeanor and our interactions were the same as they’d always been: Mom, agitated and snapping; me, placid. Certainly, the subject matter was dire, but our interaction continued in its known and well-worn pattern. There were no words of endearment, no hellos nor goodbyes—just a sour acknowledgment that someone else had entered the room. Only formal discussions and decisions continued for the next week.
She was selective in choosing any visitors. Of course, her favorite son’s offspring was allowed, and she requested a private conversation with him. I can only guess the subject matter, especially when his mother later hired her own attorney to question my dissemination of the estate. I can almost hear Mom cautioning her grandson, “Don’t you let Carol Ann cheat you out of anything.” If Mom understood me, she would have realized I believed in karma too much to cheat anyone out of anything. She was so predictable, even to the end. I’m chuckling as I write.
Others begged to see her, but all other grandchildren were denied a final goodbye.
Mom was fully cognizant. Her demise was not age- or dementia-related, but rather caused by an illness that, once undiagnosed, had become terminal. When she made her final decision to enter hospice care, her ascent began. We spent four days in hospice.
I would think transitioning from this world to the next would be highly personal—a superbly private moment. As the person leaving, are you afraid? Are you aware you are leaving people behind? How do you really say goodbye? Do you think you should pee one last time? Do you make a final checklist in your head of things not finished? Are you aware of the dinner cart rattling in the hallway?
Mom’s only request was to have no pain. The staff kindly obliged.
Mom had a thing about never wanting people to watch her sleep, so it really was an honor to be allowed to witness her unfolding into spirit.
Day by day, I could feel the changes—in the way Mom looked, in the way the room felt. I can’t put my finger on it, whether it was real, my imagination, or just a sense about it all.
The droning of life continued outside her room, but I was content to sit for hours in this new and reverent space being made available. Her agitation had melted days ago. I was no longer placid, but respectful and observant.
In this space, where God speaks, I knew—beyond any opinion or assumption—that our earthly existence, our possessions, our drama and pain, our accomplishments—are all temporal. A matter of perception and conjecture. Something to keep our ego busy.
On her final day, her ego had visibly dropped away, with only her spirit in full bloom. Her passing was serene—and for me, life-changing. The look on her face, the essence in the air.
Mom was absolutely beautiful. The most beautiful I had ever seen her.
For all our previous decades of emotional pain and estrangement, I wasn’t necessarily sad to see her depart, although my heart was soft. I gently touched her cheek.
Her final gift was allowing me to witness, to know for myself—beyond any shadow of doubt—that our spirit truly does live on. Earth is only part of our journey.
Most of us know this by faith. I have the incredible and priceless gift of knowing it by its witness.
