Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death." Isaiah 57:1-2 New International Version

April 20, 2012 My mother died 25 years ago today. In 1992 I wrote the following story about her death. Death, Officially With the exception of AIDS, I have never seen people cringe so much as when the word cancer is mentioned, and I am no exception. Like so many others who believed that cancer would never strike their lives, I found the news of my mother’s cancer (terminal from the beginning) to be the onset of one of the most trying periods in my life. I felt personally insulted that my life and family had been invaded by this devastating disease. I prided myself on being a “tower of strength,” during her illness and following her death. I did not realize that everyone mourns in the different ways. Some people openly cry. I didn’t. Some people talk about their feelings. I didn’t want to be reminded of mine. Some people mourn by telling favorite stories or doing something to remind them of who they had lost. I didn’t do any of these things. My mother died, had a funeral, was buried, and my life went on. I also went on to gain 40 pounds, and could not for the life of me understand why my appetite had “taken over” my good senses. I couldn’t understand why friends turned away from me or why new friends faded fast. No one wanted to deal with the angry, hostile person I had become. I had become an angry stranger to those who knew me. Two years after my mother’s death, I looked into the mirror from my lonely, angry, self-created isolation only to see a reflection of someone, not even I could recognize. I looked into the mirror and realized what I had become. I was lost. I realized that I had to begin to make my way back to where I had “lost” myself when my mother died. The journey back has been a long, reflective one which has brought me to the point when I can now sit and go through old photographs, old letters, faded holiday and birthday cards, or just spend a few minutes strolling down memory lane. Each time I reflect, I think back to the time in the hospital that proved to be a turning point in both her life and mine. To me, my mother’s death was the final chapter in the book of her life, whose last page had been turned by another hand.Tthe “paper cut” to our souls was endured by both of us. “Your mother died,” was all the nurse said, as she woke me from a light sleep. I got up slowly from the lounge chair I had taken from the hospital waiting room three nights before (the doctor had known my mother’s time was near, so the hospital security allowed me to sleep overnight in her room). I stood looking at the plain hospital sheet the nurse pulled over her face. The nurse had had already disconnected her tubes and IV. Memories flashed through my mind, taking me back to a time when this lifeless body had been full of life and happiness. She was a lively person who told funny, affectionate, cherished stories about her family as I was growing up. The nurse’s voice broke the silence. “The doctor has been notified and he will be here soon. He will examine her body, officially pronounce her dead, and then record the official time of death for our records. You’ll have to leave when he arrives.” Her voice was soft, yet cold and sterile. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was a heartless woman with no feelings. However, she had been working this shift when my mother was admitted to the hospital. I knew this nurse had worked many nights taking care of her, talking to her, comforting her. I knew that for many nights she made sure my mother received her pain medication on time, rubbed her back, and held her hand during the long night. No. This woman wasn’t cold or heartless. She was just distancing herself from the pain of my mother dying. Something, I would do for the next three years. I thought to myself, why examine her body? Internally, she was consumed with cancer. As for the time of death, I could have told them that. She “died” when the doctor told her one week earlier, there was nothing they could do for her. The surgery had revealed three quarter of her stomach, her liver, and her pancreas were consumed with cancer. When the doctor left the room after telling her the results of the surgery and the final prognosis, I could tell by the rapid eye movement and her eyes concentrated on the ceiling that there was nothing wrong with her thinking processes. Well, this is it, I thought. She’s dying. She had denied this truth all along. Now the prognosis was in. I told myself that I prepared for this moment. If she cried, I would be strong. I would comfort her, talk to her, and let her know we would get through this together. She was there for me all of my life. Now it was my turn. She stared at the ceiling for a long time before saying anything. Finally, she lifted her head off the pillow, looked at me and in a calm, rather inquisitive, yet innocent way asked, “How can someone die of a hernia? The doctors must be wrong.” Without waiting for an answer, she laid her head back on the pillow and never spoke to anyone again. Over the week to follow, I watched her slip deeper and deeper into the oblivion of pain medication. As the pain increased, the medication increased. I knew now her life had been fully lived and was now coming to a close. I felt sad but grateful in knowing I was able to share this time with her. One week later, when the last breath of life left her body, the official time of death was recorded. But in my mind she had died much earlier. “Are you the daughter?” the doctor asked me. Without saying a word, I nodded my head. He picked up the sheet covering her face, careful not to expose her too much, ran his fingers through his hair, yawned, then rubbed his eyes. “You’ll have to leave. I need time to examine the body.” I quietly nodded, once again staring blankly at the doctor. “Can she have a few minutes alone with her mother?” the nurse asked. The doctor nodded, then left the room. I pulled the sheet back to reveal a face thin and old, not the face I knew six months ago when she came to visit me for the summer. I saw the face of a woman who did not deserve to die. I took one last look at her, gave her one last kiss (in this life anyway), then left the room. As I walked through the hospital towards the parking lot, the halls seemed much longer, the elevator much slower, the air much damper, and my life much more empty. As I walked across the parking lot, I could taste the salt water from the Baltimore harbor. The smell took me back to a time when my mother, father, brothers, and I would go to the beach on a hot summer day off the Maryland shoreline. The salt water brought back a time when my mother was healthy and alive. I remember picnics at Sandy Point, near the Bay Bridge. I can picture in mu mind my brothers fishing, while I played in the sand. My father laid on a lounge chair listening to an Oriole baseball game on the car radio. My mother gazed over the water as large ships cluttered the fishing channel. This picture is forever burned in my memories. I stopped in the middle of the hospital parking lot to take a deep breath of the early morning air, and listened to the waves gently rush ashore. Just for a moment, I am seven years old and sitting beside my mother on the beach with my hand next to her hand in the warm sand. She’s alive, laughing, talking, smiling. As I open my eyes I see my car at the end of the parking lot. I continue to walk, stunned by her passing. As I open my car door and start the engine, I wondered how I would tell my father and brothers. I would have to call them early in the morning. I didn’t want them to come to the hospital in the morning to fine her gone. I pulled the collar of my jacket closer to my chin to block out the chilly early morning air, and drove out of the parking lot into the night. The End I never spoke to my mother again in this life. To this day I miss her terribly. I miss she and I going shopping, having lunch, talking over coffee, writing letters to each other, celebrating the holidays with her, or driving to Pennsylvania to visit her family. Our time together here in this temporaty life was too short. I know the Lord looked down on her and realized how much she suffered living with my father. He called her home to let her rest, and gave her peace of mind. Now she is in heaven with five of her sisters. I know she is happy with them, and they are happy to be together again.