My mother passed away last night due to a problem with her fistula (essentially a port through which they do dialysis). She suffered from dementia and end stage renal failure. It’s been a long journey for her these past few years, and I can take comfort in knowing she’s no longer suffering through one medical crisis after another.
This past year we haven’t been able to have much of a conversation due to her dementia. Our talks would last maybe thirty seconds, but I’m happy to say that they consisted of, “How are you?” and “I love you.” Those were my last words to her. Not everyone gets to say goodbye on that note, and for that I’m grateful.
The situation is strange. She passed away just before Mother’s Day, and I’m flying out to go to her funeral tomorrow, on my birthday. I’ve never been one to care for birthdays (especially not this year considering my great birthday bash plans consisted of going to my see my neurologist), and Mother’s Day would have been meaningless to her at this point. In a way, it all seems fitting. The other day I was thinking of what I could send her for Mother’s Day and I couldn’t come up with anything that would make sense. Nothing would have made sense to her except for those words. In a way, that’s what it all comes down to anyways.
So I’ll say them one last time for whatever it’s worth:
Mom, I really wish I could’ve been there with you in your last hour. I miss you, and I love you so very much.