Remembering the loved ones that aren’t with us anymore…

I was 32 when my father Henry died from cancer in 1982. My mother, Blanche, called me late one night and said that he was in a coma, and that the nurses told her we should get there quickly. She and I arrived in time to kiss him and listen to his final breaths. It was an awesome experience. I am eternally grateful I was there.

Mum got on with life pretty well after Henry’s death. She went on a trip with my younger sister to San Francisco, and played mah jong with her girlfriends as she always had. She loved seeing her granddaughters, our kids, and visited every chance she could. We all looked forward to many years together, but just a year after my father’s death, Blanche was diagnosed with leukeamia.

Months passed. After yet another round of chemotherapy, we visited her in the local hospital. She told us that her doctor had abruptly told her he could do no more for her and was handing her over to a specialist in New York City. We were shocked by the casual manner my mother shared this news. She never saw her doctor again, nor did we. We all felt abandoned by him.

On a cold, sleeting day in March we drove her to Mt Sinai Medical Centre in Manhattan. My wife escorted Blanche to admissions while I found a parking place. Then, the doctor told us (but not my mother) she had no idea why my mother’s doctor had her transferred here, nor why she had even been admitted. This was a research department only for patients with a chance of recovery. My mother had no hope, she said. Her organs were failing due to the intense chemothereapy she had already received.

Nevetheless, she remained there. Her condition steadily deteriorated over the next two weeks. She slipped in and out of consciousness, contracted pneumonia and needed oxygen. She was moved to a corner room, which we nicknamed ‘the death room’, where other visitors couldn’t see her and be more distressed than they already were with their own loved ones’ conditions.

My sister, wife and I took turns filling the roles of nurses. We aspirated her, draining the fluids which the pneumonia caused to accumulate in her lungs. We rubbed cream into her skin to reduce the intense itching she experienced. We applied balm to her cracked lips. We fed her spoonfuls of jello, crushed ice and did the best to comfort her.

One Saturday, St Patrick’s Day, I sat by her side, staring out the window at the cold March rain. I knew the end was near, but when? Did I wish it came? Yes. We all did. I’m sure Mum did, too.

The ‘beeps’ from the heart monitor kept up their steady rhythm as did the rain drops tracing their wiggly paths down the window. With each beep I knew there were fewer remaining, yet the beeps continued while the rain kept falling.

Suddenly, without warning, my mother rapidly sat upright. She stretched her arms out to me, her eyes wide open. She couldn’t speak through the oxygen mask, but I knew what she was saying. We hugged. I whispered “I love you,” and said “It’s OK”. (What was OK? I don’t know.) Then, exhausted, she lay down. The beeps continued as did her ragged, gurgling breaths. I held her hand, and stared out the window.

A few hours later I left her. I had to get home to my wife and girls, and we planned on coming back the next day. But at three a.m. we received the phone call from the hospital. She had died.

I regret to this very day that I wasn’t by her side when she died, as we were for my father. But being there for one final hug, a silent, intense expression of love from her, was a moment that I will always cherish.

She was 66 years old, just a few years older than I am now.

I have many elderly friends who are around the age my mother would be today. I hope they and their children shared lots of love and hugs on Mother’s Day. All I can do is remember Blanche.

But 30 years later, along with many other mothers, my daughter celebrates her Mother’s Day with her daughters, including her eldest: Blanche, our granddaughter named in Mum’s honour. Five-year-old Blanche’s hugs and cuddles help chase away the cold from that day when I last hugged my mother, and remind me of the love we shared. Knowing little Blanche loves her mother so much makes my mother Blanche very happy, I am sure. It certainly makes me happy.

What in your life makes you think of your parents? How do you stay connected to them even if they aren’t here with you? Share your thoughts with us in the comments below…