Her Death Was Imminent, But I Never Got To Say Goodbye

I’d often stay overnight and sleep beside her in her king-sized bed

This is the story of Paul as told to Jeanette Summers. Our “Opening Our Hearts” stories are based on people’s real-life experiences. By sharing these experiences publicly, we hope to help our readers feel less alone in their grief and, ultimately, to aid them in their healing process. In this post, Paul talks about losing his elderly mother, and never having an opportunity to say a proper goodbye.

My Failing Mom

I knew that my mother wasn’t well, but I had no idea that her death was imminent.

She had endured a great deal over the course of her eighty-five years of life: Cervical cancer in her fifties; lung cancer, caught at Stage 1, six years prior to her death. She’d had two successful lung surgeries — one in which doctors removed ⅓ of her larger lung, and ¼ of her smaller lung. After her surgery, she didn’t require oxygen, as most patients who have survived her surgery do. I was shocked by how well her body adapted. My mother’s lung cancer went into remission, only to return and invade her bones.

I was on my way to the airport when I got the call from my sister: my mother had died.

We had a beautiful relationship, but it came with its share of strain and fallow periods. When I came out in the eighties, she stopped speaking to me for several years. Finally, I gave her an ultimatum: “Accept me for who I am and who I love, or say goodbye.” Gradually and blessedly, she chose acceptance; our bond blossomed from there. When she was first diagnosed with lung cancer, she shifted even farther in the direction of unconditional love. Our desire to be close grew stronger than ever before.

I made it a point to drive down to Los Angeles every month or so

I lived two hours away from my mother, but I made it a point to drive down to Los Angeles every month or so to see her. I’d often stay overnight and sleep beside her in her king-sized bed. Between visits, I called to check in with her three to five times a week. Toward the end, her voice was altered: a sharp rasp where one had never been before. But there was no dramatic difference in her appearance, and — although she wasn’t especially talkative — her speech was entirely coherent.

My Mother’s Unexpected Death

The day before my mother was to die, a Saturday, I made my routine phone-call. To my surprise, my sister — who I wasn’t speaking to — picked up the phone.

“I’m glad you called,” she said. “Mom isn’t doing well at all. She’s probably going to die in a day or two.”

My sister often speaks as if she’s an expert, so a part of me dismissed the flutter of urgency in her voice. My mother was obviously elderly, and her health was deteriorating, but the condition she was in didn’t seem any more dire or frightening than usual. I had no concrete reason to take what my sister was saying as fact. Still, something in me was alarmed; I didn’t want to have any regrets. And so, I made immediate plans to fly down to Los Angeles to be with my mother just in case.

I was on my way to the airport when I got the call from my sister: my mother had died.

I later learned that my mother predicted her death the Thursday prior. Instead of simply calling me, my sister asked my mother, “Do you want to call Paul?” My mother’s response was, “Don’t bother him.” As if saying one last goodbye to the woman who created me, raised me, loved me all my life were a burden. If my sister had taken the initiative to call me on Thursday, I could have made it to Los Angeles in time.

But my sister — who had been given sole power of attorney — didn’t heed my mother’s wishes.

A text message I received from my mother months before she passed: “I wanted you to know just how proud we, dad and I, have been of you. We will be watching over you making sure God is seeing to it that all good things happen for you.” I suppose my mother and I had been preparing for her final departure — practicing our goodbyes — for a long time. She knew how much I loved her. Still, if I’d been in the room with my mother as she passed, I could have held her hand, looked into her face, told her I loved her — face-to-face — one last time. It was all so unfair.

In retrospect, I wish I’d somehow sensed to come sooner. In fact, I wish I had moved down to Los Angeles and stayed in my mother’s apartment during her final years. But in this life, there are no do-overs.

There was no funeral.

My father died a decade before my mother. My mother had made careful, deliberate funeral arrangements for herself. In the directive, she stated that she wanted to be buried with my father, their caskets stacked in a shared grave in Santa Fe. But my sister — who had been given sole power of attorney — didn’t heed my mother’s wishes. At first, I thought she didn’t want to spend the money to transport our mother’s body from California to New Mexico, but when our wealthy uncle offered to pay, my sister refused. “It’s none of your business,” was all she said; for whatever reason, she was bent on having my mother cremated.

I’ll never understand why my sister robbed me of practically every opportunity to do right by our mother. But one small grace: she did send me a small portion of our mother’s ashes.

Holding on — clinging to what remains — has never been my modus operandi. When my partner died, I took a trip around the world and scattered his ashes in different places: Italy, Bali, Australia, Mexico. This way, he’d be where he always wanted to be: Everywhere. Surrounded by beauty.

I plan to go to the cemetery in Santa Fe where my father is buried and either spread my mother’s ashes on top of his coffin or — at the very least — scatter them on top of his grave. This way, my mother can have a small piece of what she asked for.

When it comes to my sister, forgiveness remains something I can’t fully grasp. But I’ll finally be able to let go of my mother in a way that honors her spirit.