Cause of death: Natural Causes
Underlying Contributory Cause: Metastatic Bone Cancer
Root Cause: Having to bury your favorite child.
It was a very cold, very sunny day. We were headed to brunch with our former family, specifically to say hi and catch up with the innocents in all this ‘ex’ business, the kids. In a hurry, blazing east on I-90 which was spotted with icy pools, I listened to a frantic voice mail from my mom. My younger brother, her coveted child, had unexpectedly dropped dead at 50, at 10 in the morning on Christmas Eve day.
I relayed the death to my ex, the brunch host, hoping for empathy, acknowledgment —something. “My brother just died”, I spit the words out, still unbelieving. There was a pause, then, “Did you bring the dog with you?” We sat in almost stoney silence for the meal…me mustering up enough energy to ask about college and career choices for the step-kids. But the energy cast a pall. It wasn’t until a full month later that ex broke down uncontrollably —a geyser of decades of his own pent-up grief over his own issues. “I can’t imagine how painful it is to lose your sibling.” I had never seen him cry so erratically or had even seen him cry at all, for that matter – contorted face, tears and snot gushing. At that moment, I loved him all over again. Not because I reveled in his vulnerability, but because I hungered for his humanness. But back to the point at hand…
There are so many layers to the story of the visit ‘home’ and the wake.
We had our sibling issues, certainly in childhood, but adulthood too. As siblings, we weren’t necessarily close, meaning we didn’t check up on each other or connect to bring each other up to speed in our respective lives. Although interesting to note, six months to the day prior to his death, Peter called to say…and I quote, “I just want you to know that everything is okay”. Me, “What are you talking about?” “Just know that everything is okay.” Then he hung up. Odd as I look back. A premonition of sorts? At his wake, I slipped a note in the pocket of his suit coat apologizing for all the times in our lives that I was mean to him and expressing how much I loved him.
At his home, where we all gathered, my newly widowed and estranged sister-in-law and I exchanged heartfelt emotions left unsaid for many years. In comparing notes, we realized mom had purposefully pitted us against each other for the last twenty years. Not surprised, but profoundly sad.
Dare I say much of the sibling issues were propagated by a mother who had her own unresolved issues and took out her angst and odd perspectives on her kids.
After the ‘viewing’, our extended family celebrated with drink as has been our norm for as long as I can remember. Mom, although quite the avid imbiber herself, would not partake, admonishing, “How can you celebrate when Peter is gone!”. But we weren’t celebrating his death. We were acknowledging, honoring, and some of us were relieved that we got through the service without breaking down with our own emotional stockpile.
Peter was a train engineer. When the train went by, near his backyard, that was the signal for another shot of tequila in his name. Over several evenings, even his co-worker and fellow engineer blew the whistle in remembrance at each pass.
Mom sat in the crowded kitchen, hunched over, arms crossed, rigid.
As a side note, I wondered why she wore such a shabby sweater to her son’s wake. I pondered that concept for five years until when cleaning her closet after her death, I came across that sweater and tried it on. She wore it because it was a weight and style that provided comfort. I wore that same sweater after her death and for many years after…until finally able to let it go.
The jolt of Peter’s death was the beginning of mom’s end.
Within the first year, she began experiencing unexplained pain throughout her body. Doc determined it was arthritis. But the pain persisted into unbearability. Mom pleading with doc for relief…but none was forthcoming. The pain raged on – blood tests revealed nothing unusual other than osteo-arthritis.
Finally, after four years of excruciating and debilitating pain increasing throughout her body, someone in the medical profession suggested a PET scan.
Now, I don’t know everything…but I certainly know enough. I believe to this day that painful cancer was a direct result of the emotional trauma of her favorite son dying too soon.
With her painful life — a disappointing husband, single mom to three kids, my other brother and his alcoholism, being ridiculed by her own siblings…this was the absolute last straw. A straw she wasn’t willing to push into the pile of other traumatic straws. She was done. And by being done, created her own exit.
At least that’s my belief. And probably hers too, if I could have chatted with her about it.
My surviving brother Len warned me of a note he saw at her home while she was hospitalized, prior to her death. A paper, torn into a triangle shape, as if torn from the corner of a business envelope. In her inked handwriting, “Carol Ann and Leonard are sitting in the corner like vipers waiting for me to die.” Were we vipers because Peter died instead of one of us? Were we vipers so she could dump her emotional pain onto someone? Writing that phrase here, remembering it, feeling the heaviness of it again…some things just take forever to heal. Or maybe they don’t heal. That was the parting thought mom had of me and my brother — her surviving children. And that angry scrawl was the doorway into my last visit with her before she left this world.
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 her hospital room. Only formal discussions and decisions continued for the next week.
A few days in, there was one moment of softening when she explained where her important paperwork was and the hidden place where she kept her ring. There was a kindness in her voice as she described making sure Len had a decent vehicle…and other comments of final tasks needing to be completed. But no comments on any of us as her children or grandchildren — except to say she would not grant any of them, save one grandson, an audience or an opportunity to say their last goodbyes.
Now the DNR was in place, specifically because there was no cure for the cancer. It was too advanced. Only treatment without cure.
The look on mom’s face realizing she would never see her home again, it haunts me to this day.
As paperwork shuttled here and there, I spoke with her doctor privately. “Are we doing the right thing, sending her to Hospice?” I asked, riddled with guilt. This was Monday.
It took him three attempts to soften the timing message, starting by reciting Hospice rules of six months. I pressed for clarity. He announced quietly, “she’ll be gone by the end of the week”.
She went to Hospice on Monday, was dead on Friday.
Although metastatic bone cancer surged, Mom remained fully present. Her death wasn’t from age or confusion, but from the long aftermath of heartbreak. Five years had passed since Peter died—five years of slow unraveling. When she finally chose hospice care, I believed it wasn’t surrender, but intention. She had manifested her exit—either to join her favorite child in the next realm or to escape her unbearable grief. Either way, she fulfilled her own wish.
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 nursing staff 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 last eve, I slept in my clothes, in a little pull-out bed made from the side chair in her room. The death rattle, as it’s called, lulled me to sleep.
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. It was a Holy Spirit moment.
Mom was beautiful, like a small doll. Her hair snow white, her face serene, smooth, pleasant, neutral. The most beautiful I had ever seen her.
For all our previous decades of misery 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.
