I don’t know what day my mom died. I know when she was legally declared dead, which would be October 27, 2014. But she was already gone before then.
For weeks, I pleaded with my father to remove Mom from life support, but he refused. In his denial, he insisted she was going to pull through. But she was in a coma, in total organ failure; her heart was failing, her liver had left her bloated with fluids and as yellow as a banana, he signed the papers to start dialysis to compensate for her failing kidneys, and her lungs were functioning at 0%. Not an iota of breath entering or leaving her body was natural. Yet, he insisted she would be fine, telling me I was heartless and trying to hastily speed up her death for my own personal convenience.
Mom had signed an advance directive and often expressed her wish to never be kept on life support, if there wasn’t a chance of recovery. So my fight to remove her from all the machines wasn’t selfish or even of my own desire; it was to be her voice, when she was unable to speak for herself. That was also the day I learned all the legal papers in the world meant nothing, as the spouse had legal authority to override all of it.
But one night, my mom woke up–sort of. She never opened her eyes, but she managed to whisper one word through the tube jammed down her throat: “PRAY.”
Caught completely by surprise, my father sat up in his chair and asked her to repeat herself.
“PRAY,” she uttered again, and as soon she spoke it, she crashed, never to regain any life or function again.
You will never be able to convince me Jesus Christ Himself wasn’t standing before her, arms outstretched, and she knew she was going home.
And that, I believe, is the real day she died. Everything after that was artificial, machines forcing a soulless body to merely mimic the motions of life. Later, on October 27, I ultimately won my battle, and my father finally understood she was not going to recover. He very reluctantly signed the papers and ceased all life support.
I didn’t learn of her nighttime comment until after her “legal” passing, when I asked my father what her final words were. He had to give it some thought, and when he realized what they were, he was disturbed. He may have been troubled by it, but I wasn’t, and I immediately went on a quest to find a tangible representation of the image I saw in my head. I imagined Christ in white and blue robes, arms outstretched to her. After several days, I finally found exactly what I was looking for, in every detail.
Jesus now stands on the corner of my dresser, next to the journals Mom kept in her final years and a personalized box containing her photo and various personal effects. They are reminders of not just her final days, her last words, but that despite all of the pain and immense suffering she endured, she still died peacefully and is now home. It may not be the “home” we wanted her to come to, but when I glance to that dusty spot on my dresser, I smile, knowing it she’s in the “home” she’s always wanted to be.
And hopefully, with enough repentance, I may someday join her.
Categories: Uncategorized
Leave a Reply