When there are no more candles on the cake....

Mom would have been 84 tomorrow. It doesn’t seem like it’s been seven years since she passed away, yet, it seems it was a very long time ago when I could pick up the phone and hear her voice.

At least with time I don’t have the urge to call her anymore when something good, or bad, has happened to me that day. Instead my mind whispers softly how much mom would have enjoyed things like watching my youngest try on her wedding dress or knowing that my oldest made it through eight years of college to become a veterinarian.

On those days when I feel the squeeze of being part of the sandwich generation, I tell the girls that if I become a burden when I’m older, I won’t hold it against them if they choose not to take on the task of caregiver. Even though my mind says that’s what I would want them to do, my heart says differently.

I will never regret taking care of mom those last months of her life. When she asked to go home, after being in the hospital and knowing she was losing the battle, all I wanted was for her to be happy.

There’s obviously never a good way to die. Most of us hope it comes in our sleep, whether we know it’s time or not. Some want to know when their days are numbered so they can prepare and say goodbye, while others wish for it to happen quickly.

No one likes to think about death, yet we all have to deal with it during the life cycle.

Maybe mom knew me better than I knew myself. After tests and more tests and the final prognosis were given, I cried while she never shed a tear. She consoled me, when it should have been the other way around. Asking for hospice and I to take care of her at home, she gave me the last and most important lesson. 

Sometimes we’d have long talks; sometimes we’d say nothing. Her confidence and strength taught me that death is inevitable, but coming to terms with your life, while you’re alive, makes leaving this earth a little easier.

We had a big birthday party for her. She wore a pink bandana on her head and her best purple and pink flowered nightgown. All of her family came and went throughout the day.

She’d lift her oxygen mask just long enough to say hello and to give a smile to each of her guests. Between the hospital bed and the oxygen tanks there wasn’t much room to move around. By the end of the day she was exhausted, but happy and content. Just before she drifted off to sleep she told me what a great day she had. I felt at ease as well and it was one of those times nothing more needed to be said. She was ready to go and I was finally ready to let go.

She died three days later.

Sorry for such a sad story today but sometimes you just want everyone to celebrate those silent birthdays to help keep the memory alive.