A few days before my mom died, my dad and I stood on either side of her body debating whether or not she was doing the death rattle. My dad, who had heard the death rattle when my grandfather died, was certain that was not what we were hearing. I, who had never heard it, was sure that was the sound mom was making.
My dad described how it had sounded with my grandfather, and I whispered, “but he weighed so much more than her, so maybe the sound is different with a tiny lady”. And, as I pulled my phone out to look for a video or sound clip of the death rattle, I thought “this is absurd, and I think I’m gonna find this moment a little humorous one day”. And I have. Because there isn’t a how-to guide when you’re telling a loved one goodbye, and so many parts of it are absurd.
When we brought hospice in, we didn’t have any idea how long she really had, or what her final days would look like. We just knew that it was coming. They handed us brochures to explain the process, but a brochure can’t explain the death rattle. And, honestly, it wouldn’t matter if it could. It didn’t matter if that was what we were hearing. What we were really trying to figure out was “is this the end? Is this the day?”.
Mom had been talking a few days before, weak, but talking and eating. I helped her eat one last small meal on a Sunday night, and the next morning she just didn’t wake up. She wasn’t gone yet – she just wasn’t “here” anymore. We had known we would lose her soon, but we didn’t know she would just stop talking so suddenly.
The morning she stopped talking I drove to my parent’s house, and the hospice nurse was walking in at the same time. I hadn’t seen mom yet, and the nurse said “I think she’s transitioning”. Another thing I had no frame of reference for. At that moment, I thought she meant mom was dying that day or the next. But, it turned out it was more of a process. She had already left this world in many ways, but we would have 5 more days to care for her, and tell her goodbye. We would read the Bible to her, and my brother would play his guitar and sing for her. My dad would care for her in the ways he had been for months. We would tell her each day that it was ok for her to go, that we would be ok, and she could leave when she was ready.
The nurses told me that she wasn’t in pain or scared. And I would nod, wanting that to be true, while screaming in my head, “but how do you KNOW she isn’t scared or in pain? You can’t know. We can’t know.”
Then, a few days later, on a Saturday night, I told my mom goodbye one last time. My family and I knew it was almost time. I drove home, certain that I would not see her again. Around 10:00 that night I panicked and texted my dad to ask him to pray over her, because maybe she wouldn’t be afraid then. He called a few hours later, at about 1:00AM on September 3, to tell me she was gone.
I asked my dad several days later if he had prayed over her like I’d asked and he said “yes, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done”, to which I replied, “Why do you think I asked YOU to do it!?” I couldn’t do it, but it felt really important. Even with all my complicated feelings about church and God and heaven and hell, I knew mom was certain about where she would go when she died. I often think about the fact that she does actually know where you go when you die. She has the answer now, and I will her to show up in my dreams and tell me. To give me the answers to life and death. But, she doesn’t. So, I continue on, living a life that I hope she can see in some way. A life she would be proud of, even though my beliefs have shifted.