Looking at Life: My Mother

My mother's second diagnosis of breast cancer, which she had beaten in 1980, had resurfaced eighteen years later during a routine x-ray. Having defeated the disease once before, we were all hopeful that my mother would be victorious over the disease yet again, and initially she responded well to treatment. For a long stretch of time, there was no evidence of the disease at all. But then, the insidious illness began robbing my mother of her vitality, her stamina, her independence - though never, ever, her dignity.

Valentine's Day 2002 my mother checked into the hospital. In the early evening after my father had wearily gone home, I took a long-stemmed red rose and a cheery helium balloon (along with a chocolate milkshake my mother had requested) and sat by her bedside for hours. In those precious Moments, my mother and I spoke candidly about life, death, and - more importantly - living. And even though the thoughts were serious, we still laughed and joked, managing to keep it generic and light, each of us unwilling (yet) to openly acknowledge that her journey was surely coming to an end.

Although she had been admitted ostensibly for a twenty-four hour visit, some new health crisis kept her bound to her fifth floor hospital room. Day after day, as she lay patiently and smiling in her bed, the helium balloon stayed aloft, and the crimson petals of the rose I had given her amazingly stayed in full bloom.

When I walked into my mother's hospital room after ten days, the first thing I noticed was that the helium balloon hung lower on the bedrail and several rose petals rested on the table by her side. Her breathing was labored; her spirit was noticeably quiet.

Throughout the day, my father, sister, and I took turns wiping her brow, touching her cheek, adjusting her pillows to make her as comfortable as we could. We each spoke softly to her, final thoughts of how much we loved her and how it was ok to let go. My sister and I both reassured my Mom we would watch out for our father on Earth knowing she would watch over him from Heaven, to help our Dad through the loss of his best friend and sweetheart of forty-eight years.

On Tuesday morning, February 26th, at 6:20 a.m., my father, sister, and I were silently by my mother's side. And as she peacefully took her final, shallow breath, the helium balloon lay still on the bedrail; and the last petal of the crimson rose floated slowly, gently, to the floor, as her Spirit surely rose up...

When a loved one dies, within our sorrow, our loss, it is important to remember that there is also an inherent gift in death - the awareness of how precious life is. It reminds us to not let one day go by without appreciating the opportunities that await us each morning when we awake. It compels us to reach out to those in need; to share our time and our resources to help those less fortunate. It gives us the courage to embrace our gifts and to live authentically, providing a perspective we may not have had before.

For those of you who are struggling with the loss of someone dear to you, be comforted in knowing that our loved ones in Spirit are oh so much closer than you think - for the distance between two hearts can be measured by the abundance of love found within those hearts; a very short distance, indeed.