Timeline
Prolonged Ending
Ruby – My Mom
The repeated farewells to a loved one who lingers on the brink of death can be emotionally draining, as each goodbye is laden with the heavy uncertainty of whether it will be the last. In contrast, the sudden loss of someone in an accident, without the chance for any goodbye, delivers a swift, sharp shock, leaving behind unresolved feelings and a yearning for just one final moment together.
I felt I was on a roller coaster during the last nine months of my mom’s life in hospice care. I rarely knew what to expect from one day to the next. Three months later, she slept for two days straight.
The hospice doctor came for a visit and told me, “Your mom will most likely die within days.”
My brother flew in from Texas, and at 3:00am the next morning, my mom woke up, as if she was a sleeping beauty, who woke up to see her only son, “I can’t believe you are really here” she said excitedly to my brother, her eyes bright, grinning ear to ear, and raising her arms for a warm hug.
I did not want to be accused of crying wolf, so for the next six months, I became very selective in sharing what was going on, even if it became very close. I did not want pity, lectures, or judgment from other family members. I had no time or energy for any of that. In fact, I had very little time or energy even for my children, husband, home, career, health, and a handful of friends.
I know I dropped a lot of b***s daily. Sometimes I forgot something my husband asked me to do, or I did not remember a meeting I had scheduled, or I forgot to call the pharmacy for medication refill.
I rarely broke down and cried. Taking care of my emotional needs never made it to the top of my daily “to do” list. I was barely getting through the “must dos” for the day. With the reality of having so much on my plate, crying felt like a luxury I could not afford.
My mom lived in hospice for a total of nine months and kept declining every few weeks. Every “new low” made me think it was the end of her life. But somehow, she would magically continue to push through. The hospice team supporting my mom and I kept wondering what was keeping her here.
For every new low, I would think to myself, “It can’t get worse than this.” Yet, it would. I would stop by her room every time I was leaving home. In the back of my mind, I always had the nagging thought that this was maybe the last conversation I would ever have with her. It was too difficult to say that many goodbyes.
One of my friends said to me one day, “It was really painful that I was not able to say goodbye to my mom before she passed.”
“This will probably sound insane to you, but I am not sure what is more painful: not being able to say goodbye or wondering every day for months if that morning’s goodbye as I leave the house or that evening’s goodnight when I am going to sleep will finally be my last one,” I told my friend.
I had many conversations with the hospice team where I wondered what was keeping her here. I prayed for guidance on what closure she needed so she could move on. One by one, family and friends visited, trying to give her closure.
Some of them said things like, “We are sorry we were not able to do as much for you as we would have liked.” Or “I still remember the day I did … That must have been hurtful. I hope you will forgive me.”
I started to think about what was unresolved in our relationship. It turned out that I did not feel that I had done enough for my mom. I felt that I had not quite fulfilled the promise I had made to my dad on his deathbed when I had said, “I will take care of mom, it is okay for you to let go.” I felt that I should have found better caregivers for her, spent more time with her, kept her more active and engaged. I think she stayed long enough to give me a chance to work through those feelings and convince myself that I really did the best I could, given the situation.
My mom started talking about wanting to go home in the last couple of months of her life. One time she was so insistent that I got her in the wheelchair and told her we were going to walk to her home. At one point, she told me to take a turn and go right to get home. “We can’t get home by going straight,” she said, convinced that we were heading to her old house.
The reality was that the home she so wanted to get to was halfway around the world in Asia and we were walking in my neighborhood in San Diego. Finally, as I was opening the front door to get her back into the house, I saw the panicked look on her face, it was starting to register that we were not at her old home.
Right in front of the front door was a wooden giraffe she had bought for me from her trip to Kenya, where she had gone on a Safari. I started talking to her about her trip on an African safari. My mother was immediately transported back into the past and began describing the animals she saw and all the details of her trip many years ago. As she was completely immersed in her memories, I wheeled her chair into her room.
The weight of the passing days felt like an anchor, pulling me deeper into a world teetering on the edge of uncertainty. Over the nine months of Mom’s hospice care, I journeyed through an emotional labyrinth, each twist and turn bringing me closer to the inevitable, yet uncertain, end.
Day before she went into a coma that she never came out of; I had just wheeled her back into her bedroom. She gave me a look that stunned me and felt like her final goodbye. Then she put her hand up and said “Wait!”
Then she took a gold bracelet she had worn for as long as I had been alive, a bracelet passed down through generations, off her hands and put it on right hand.
As I sat by her bedside a few days later, awaiting the arrival of the hurst from the funeral home. I took the bracelet I had made for her when I was ten and put it on her wrist.
“I’ll never forget you, Mom,” I whispered, bidding her farewell, my hand reluctant to leave hers.
To this day I have never removed the bracelet. As we sifted through Mom’s belongings, each item bridged the past, reminding us of the love that bound us. “We’ll always carry a piece of her with us,” I realized, watching my children explore her life, their curiosity a balm to my grief.
A Mother’s Final Wish
Phoebe, Micheal, and Evelyn’s Story
Evelyn had always been a vibrant woman, full of life and energy. But the last nine months had seen her health decline rapidly. It started with a series of fainting spells that led to her hospitalization and a grim diagnosis: terminal cancer. Phoebe, her daughter, took on the role of primary caregiver, juggling her job, family, and her mother’s care with little help from others.
Michael lived far away in Texas and couldn’t be there as often as he wanted. When he finally managed to get time off work, he arrived to find his sister exhausted and their mother unrecognizable from the robust woman she once was. It was 3:00 am when he landed, and he went straight to the hospice. Evelyn, who had been unconscious for two days, suddenly woke up. Her eyes, once dull, lit up with recognition and joy.
“Michael, is it really you?” she asked, her voice weak but filled with emotion.
“Mom, I’m here,” he replied, hugging her gently.
As the days turned into weeks, Evelyn’s health continued to fluctuate. Phoebe became increasingly cautious about sharing updates with the extended family. She didn’t want their pity or unsolicited advice. She was too overwhelmed managing her responsibilities. Her emotional needs took a back seat, and she rarely cried. There simply wasn’t time.
Evelyn’s health declined in unpredictable waves. Every time Phoebe thought the end was near, her mother would rally, confusing and exhausting everyone. The hospice team was puzzled by her resilience and kept adjusting their expectations.
One day, Evelyn expressed a strong desire to go home. “I need to see my house,” she said, confusing Phoebe. Evelyn’s childhood home was across the country, a place she hadn’t seen in decades.
Thinking it might comfort her, Phoebe took Evelyn for a walk in her wheelchair around their neighborhood. Evelyn directed her as if they were navigating her old streets. “Turn right here, then left,” she instructed, her voice gaining a bit of strength.
When they arrived back at Phoebe’s house, Evelyn looked around, disoriented. “This isn’t home,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Phoebe saw the confusion and sadness in her mother’s eyes. Near the front door was a vase that Evelyn had given Phoebe years ago. “Mom, remember this?” she asked, pointing to the vase.
Evelyn’s eyes focused on it, and she began to smile. “I bought that on our trip to Italy. You loved it so much.”
Phoebe seized the moment to reminisce about that trip. Lost in the memories, Evelyn relaxed, and Phoebe wheeled her back inside.
On Evelyn’s last day, she had a moment of clarity. She took off a ring she always wore and handed it to Phoebe. “This is for you. Keep it close,” she said.
Later that night, Evelyn slipped into a coma. Phoebe and Michael stayed by her side, holding her hands. When the nurse confirmed her passing, they sat in silence, absorbing the loss.
After the funeral, Phoebe and Michael went through Evelyn’s belongings. Each item was a piece of her history. “She had such a full life,” Michael said, holding an old photo album.
“Yes, and she wanted us to remember the good times,” Phoebe replied, finding solace in their shared memories.
As they packed up her things, Phoebe felt a sense of peace. Evelyn had fought hard, but she was finally at rest. “We’ll always have her with us,” she thought, feeling her mother’s ring warm against her skin.
A Father’s Journey
Eleanor, Mike, and Brian’s Story
Brian was the anchor of his family, known for his gentle demeanor and profound wisdom. When he was diagnosed with ALS, the family was plunged into a sea of uncertainty. His daughter, Eleanor, a teacher, understood the long road ahead. Her brother, Mike, a graphic designer in Seattle, found it challenging to juggle his job with the need to support his father.
Eleanor and Mike decided to split their time with Brian, making sure he was never alone. Eleanor’s experience in caregiving was a boon, but even she felt the emotional strain. Mike flew in from Seattle, setting up a temporary workspace in Brian’s home to stay connected with his job while being there for his father.
One evening, Brian seemed more alert than usual. He beckoned Eleanor and Mike to join him. “Remember the road trips we took every summer?” he asked, his voice tinged with nostalgia.
“Absolutely, Dad,” Eleanor said, smiling. “Those were some of our best times.”
Mike added, “I still have the old map you used to plot our routes. It’s a cherished keepsake.”
They spent hours reminiscing, filled with laughter and shared memories. As Brian’s condition progressed, he began to share his reflections. “I hope I’ve been a good father to you both,” he said softly one night.
“You were the best, Dad,” Eleanor said, her eyes welling up.
“You shaped who we are,” Mike added, his voice thick with emotion.
In his final days, Brian grew more serene. One afternoon, he handed Eleanor an old compass. “This was my father’s. It’s guided me through life. Now, it’s yours.”
As Brian’s breaths became labored, Eleanor and Mike stayed by his side, holding his hands. The room was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of his breathing. When the nurse confirmed his passing, they held each other, their hearts heavy with loss.
In the days following the funeral, Eleanor and Mike sorted through Brian’s possessions. They discovered letters, photographs, and items that painted a vivid picture of his life. “He lived a remarkable life,” Mike said, holding an old pocket knife.
“Yes, and he wanted us to treasure these memories,” Eleanor replied, finding comfort in their shared past.
Among Brian’s belongings, they found a letter he had written to them. In it, he expressed his love and hopes for their future. “Embrace life fully, and always support each other,” he wrote.
Eleanor and Mike drew strength from their father’s words. They knew they would honor his legacy by being there for each other and living life to its fullest. “We’ll be okay,” Eleanor thought, feeling a deep sense of peace. “Because we have each other and his memory.”