Losing My Mom

For those who are reading this, thank you for joining me on my journey. Just so you know, the following is a very raw and detailed account of my mom's death. If that might be triggering for you or hard to read, I encourage you to stop here and read one of my other posts...

I’ve been putting off writing about my mom’s death for months now. I’ve known that I had to write about it eventually as part of my healing process. The truth is, I haven’t allowed myself to feel the full weight of her death yet. I’m not ready to. Even though I’ve experienced my mom in her spirit form, my humanness is just not ready…

But let me start here…

My mom died suddenly and traumatically right in front of me. She was in the hospital being diuresed (basically, she was being given an IV diuretic to help take fluid off her lungs). I felt she was in the right place at the right time. She was slated to go home the following Tuesday. I thought I had more time with her. What makes her death even harder is that we had a complicated, messy, beautiful and brutal relationship. She was my Mama Bear and had my back my entire life. And I had her back as well. We loved each other so very much and our bond ran deep. But we were too much alike in some ways, and too different in other ways. Let’s just say that her sudden death left me with a lot of unresolved emotions to process—on top of the traumatic experience of her death itself. And I didn’t get to say goodbye...

I was visiting her before a shift at work. I could sense that she was very anxious and so I decided to cancel my shift. She was sitting upright in a hospital lazy-boy chair. They had removed her oxygen because she was finally breathing well on her own which was very heartening. It gave me the impression that she was much better and stronger. Suddenly, though, her arms flung up in the air, she looked up at the ceiling, and froze…she was beginning to turn blue. In shock, I ran out into the hall and asked for help. Nurses began to flood into the room. I saw them hoist my mom off the chair and onto the floor as her hospital bed was in an upright position. I saw them kneeling over her and a nurse gently pulled me out of the room. I kept asking what was going on, but no one would answer me. I could still see through the door what was happening, which I was grateful for. I immediately called my brother, who is a hospitalist in Oregon. I was trying to explain to him what was happening to Mom and he told me that I had to stop them from doing CPR because Mom was a DNR. She had made that known to all three of us kids for years. Even when she was admitted to the hospital a few days earlier she made it abundantly clear that she was a DNR. I was in shock, though, and was grateful that my brother was “with me” to guide me. It felt like I was moving in slow motion as I walked towards all the nurses that were working on my mom. It was as if my soul dissociated in that moment as the words, “My mom is a DNR—you need to stop CPR” fell from my lips. They immediately stopped and hoisted her on her bed. They rushed me to her side, put her hand in mine, and sat me in a chair at her bedside. She was sitting up, her eyes open and staring off to the side. I was confused. I asked them what happened—if she had died. No one would answer me. I later found out that they couldn’t because she hadn’t been pronounced dead yet. I asked and I asked. My brother told me to check for a pulse. I was franticly placing my hand at the side of her neck but couldn’t find one. He asked if they had pronounced her dead yet, and I said no. I didn’t understand why they put her hand in mine. Finally, a nurse who must have taken pity on me gently said that she is actively dying. I knew the moment she said that that Mom was already gone. I was numb. They left me alone with her. I closed her eyes. I walked around the room a couple times. I sat by her. I snuggled into her. I held her hand. I cried. I walked around the room some more. I felt lost. It was surreal. I didn’t know what to do next…

My brother later told me that the arrhythmia she had had was one of the easiest to bring someone back from. That thought has haunted me ever since. Although, I will add here that she never would have forgiven me had I let them bring her back. She had been so ready to move on and be with my dad who has been gone for 12 years. But to say that my mom’s death was traumatic sometimes feels like an understatement. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I didn’t even get the chance to.

With all that said, I have been blessed with experiences that have connected me to her, which have brought much comfort and healing. I will share them, in time.

But for now, I will leave you with this…it is often in our greatest trials, our darkest hours that we experience our greatest growth. It’s so ironic to me, that, in my mom’s death, I have discovered deep truths about myself, my life.

As 2021 comes to a close, I have reflected on how difficult this year has been. Looking back, this year forced me into a dark night of the soul. Many aspects of my life have fallen apart the past few months. And it’s been relentless. The Universe has literally kicked my ass this year. It has required every ounce of courage, strength, vulnerability, and fight within me that I could muster. I’ve never felt so alone, yet, at the same time, I have never felt so held.

I realized that all the profound trauma that I’ve faced has given me the opportunity to face aspects of myself that needed to be healed. We often heal in layers, and it was time for me to go deeper. It was a call for a major clean-up in my life of more fully letting go of certain deep-rooted fears, as well as disempowering thoughts and relationships. It was a call for setting healthy boundaries, standing in my power, and, ultimately, spreading my wings.

2022 for me will be like the Phoenix rising from the ashes… Truly, 2021 has burned down parts of me that were meant to die. In 2022, I will rise. That is my vision and my hope.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention all the friends (that feel more like family) that have carried me through this passage on my journey. Their hours and hours of selfless service offered to me has meant so much. Hours spent helping me purge/pack as I’m in the middle of a monumental move, meals dropped off or Grubhubbed to me, hours cleaning my new place that I ended up not moving into because of certain issues, time just sitting with me in my grief and tears and overwhelm, phone calls and texts, regular check-ins to make sure I’m ok, the prayers, the listening ears, the everything… has made such a difference to my weary, yet hopeful heart. You know who you are, my amazing soul sisters and brothers. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Oh, and yes…Merry Christmas! I wish each of you so much peace, joy, and love through the rest of this year and throughout 2022. May it bring much healing and exciting new chapters in all our lives.