My mother

When my father died, it was sudden and unexpected--a heart attack. A phone call to alert me. A lot of running around the house screaming, "NO" and trying to rewind the day, to change the outcome so that I could have time to think it over, find a better result for his unhealthy heart. There was no time for good-byes or expressions of love. If we hadn't done it before, too damn bad.

This time with my mother dying in hospice hooked to a pain pump that dispenses the nectar that keeps her calm and pain-free, I've had time--to forgive and ask for forgiveness, express love and say good-bye, to admit relief. It's healing in a way, although exhausting, and at times gut-wrenching. It's more therapeutic than the startling, harsh, suddenness of my father's death.

My brother, my aunt, and I have sat vigil with my mother in hospice for five days. She made the decision to stop treatment after another ambulance ride to the hospital from the rehab center where she'd lived for weeks. She said no more--to treating the multiple infections and ailments that have turned her once athletic body unrecognizable. For four years, my mother fought to stay alive, be with family, and manage her health. Despite being dependent on others, she continued living as best as possible, but she's had enough. She's done.

Even now, her body fights. She's lasted longer than anyone in hospice expected, although it doesn't surprise us. Connie isn't one to go quietly into the night--choice or no choice. She has never been a quitter, so this is most definitely hard for her. Despite the issues we've had in the last several years, she has always been the most extraordinary human I have ever known, and I am thankful to call her my mother.