A blogger, a man I've never read before today, posted about his mother's last day on this Earth, August 14, 2004.
I found it by following a link from Jeff Brokaw, a blogger I've recently begun reading.
As I read Josh's post about his mom, I was wiping away tears, feeling his loss. At the same time, I found myself both jealous and relieved. Jealous, because he was able to be present with his mom at the time of her passing, and relieved, because my mom had such an easier passing than his did.
His mom died in a hospice, at the end of a battle with lung cancer, with her family around her, but also with tubes and various medical devices and personnel interrupting the intimacy.
My mom died at home, in her sleep, and Dad found her with a smile on her face, as if she were just having a nice dream. She was alone, sleeping in her recliner because it was easier for her to breathe that way, with Dad sleeping just down the hall in the bedroom. But she was at home, not in a hospice, not tied to any medical machines, and not suffering from cancer.
I am grateful for the peacefulness of her passing, but I miss having the chance of physically saying goodbye to her, and I resent the unexpectedness of her departure.
I'm still coming to terms with it all, eight months later. I still find myself wanting to pick up the phone and call her, just to visit, or to buy her a souvenir when I'm on a trip. I know that will pass with time, and when it does, I know I will regret its passing, as well, because it will mean I've fully accepted that she's no longer physically in my life.
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