Holding Death

I held death in my arms once. In February 2008 the tiny body of my nephew, born 20 weeks early, was brought to me wrapped in a blanket in sister-in-law Deanna’s hospital room. In my womb a 20-week-old baby kicked. It felt like the hardest thing I would ever have to do, continue growing life in the wake of death.

I was wrong.

Walking Mom through the shadow of death while living life became the new hardest thing. It involved watching, waiting, and wondering how it would end.

The following excerpts from my journal capture the essence of that walk:

Mom stayed in her bed for most of the day; then, she came out at midnight for cookies and milk.

This is a slow, slow burn. A long agonizing goodbye. I wonder what it will take for Mom to release, let go, and be embraced in the arms of love.

It feels like we have false starts, practice vigils, trial runs galore. Descend, plateau, level, recover.

It has been the hardest thing to keep living and functioning daily with the continual, “This is it, just kidding!” moments. I feel tired, flat, foolish. I understand why weddings and funerals tear families apart.

This morning Mom took a turn, and it was the last time I helped her get dressed.

This is a confusing, scary time. Mom is suffering. She is in pain. Prayers for her to be taken home quickly. We are all weary. This journey is long and hard.

I did night duty from 3 to 7 a.m. Mom put the active in active dying, tossing and turning to and fro. Wanting to get up. Stand. Go to the bathroom. Fearful and unsettled. I read and sang songs to her. Psalms. Reassurances. Breaths. Prayers. I rubbed and soothed and sang. She saw water and asked if I was standing in it or next to it. She asked if she could drive. She asked if I talked to all the people. She told me she liked my hair.

Her final words to me were, “You’re sweet.”

She was in so much pain. Today the pain was managed at the cost of consciousness. She slips away.

I can’t believe how long she lingers. It is exhausting doing these overnights and daily care.

I feel weary that on top of Mom dying, we have to face the reality of living.

I am proud of myself for starting new clients, renewing existing clients, and continuing to engage life. I am most agitated when I try to control the situation. There is absolutely nothing we can control right now. Anytime I think that a certain death scenario would be nice, I realize I cannot hold the outcome, and it only sets me up for frustration and disappointment. How messed up is it to be frustrated that my mom still lives?

It’s the final Saturday of February, seven months after the initial scan. Steve and I fill our Starbucks mugs and walk across town to say goodbye to the out-of-town family. We eat cinnamon rolls and drink coffee together. Sharon, Stephanie, and I sing “The Storm”  by Bronze Radio Return. Everyone leaves. The locals remain, a skeleton crew left to tend the dying and support the living.

On Sunday, the final day of February, Mom is still here. I go over to help with her care. What’s new is that now she is fully bedridden and unconscious. Nick removes the transport chair and bedside commode to the basement. Church at Mom’s bedside is different from the playful, happy service of two weeks ago.

This long goodbye is hard. I look at a picture of Mom from the beginning, and it looks nothing like the Mom of the end, skeletal and corpse-like.

On Thursday, March 4, I spent the night at Mom and Dad’s with my brother. At bedtime I said, “Wake me if you need help in the middle of the night.” I went to sleep and woke up at 7 a.m.

I walked downstairs to find Nick asleep on the couch. Tiptoeing past, I began to help Dad with Mom’s morning care. At 9 a.m. I noticed that my youngest sister went live on Facebook to sing Coldplay’s “The Scientist.”

After watching, I thought Mom would enjoy listening to it. Dad, Nick, Deanna, and I gathered around her bed. Holding the phone in front of Mom, I pushed play. 

Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry 
You don’t know how lovely you are…

Mom’s breathing shifted. The room grew still except for the sound of Stephanie singing and Mom breathing. 

Nobody said it was easy
It’s such a shame for us to part…

I sat on Mom’s left, my arm growing stiff from holding the phone. Deanna sat on the right. Nick stood beside me toward the foot of the bed, and Dad stood on the opposite side, also toward the foot. We began looking around, eyes shifting to Mom, then to each other. Stephanie continued singing, “No one ever said it would be so hard…”

Mom finally left us. Dad saw her leave in two sighs. My vantage point was not as peaceful. I quickly pulled tissues from the box beside me to wipe her mouth. 

“I wonder how long this stage of dying lasts?” I thought. 

Then she was gone.

And it was over.

And I was there.

Holding Death.

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Julie McClay lives in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley with her partner of 31 years, four of their eight children, and six fur and feather babies. Two precious grandchildren bring deep joy and delight. Julie is a lover of stories and words. She serves clients, both in person and virtually, through Heart Path Story Coaching, offering a creative space of kindness, curiosity, and Story Work. Writing and Art Journaling are key elements of her process.