There is the day my mumma died, and there are the lasts and firsts all around it.
The last time I held her hand. Witnessing her last breath. The first morning after she died. The first time that I felt like calling her and realizing she wasn’t there.
And then there is the present moment, which this journey with her taught me so much about. Like when she was lying on the couch watching the tree out the window and reporting aloud that “the leaves are moving” or “the leaves aren’t moving.” Or when I went into her room, rested my cheek on her belly and placed her hand on my head, reversing the already-reversed roles of who cares for whom to savor the feeling of having my mom still here for that moment.
We talked a lot about life before she left, about how funny and glorious and confusing and mysterious it is, especially the fact that it ends part. We shared memories and secrets (well I did, she said hers were “long gone” ha ha). We played the song “Is That All There Is” and smiled at the chorus, while she danced her arms around and said, “Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”
I’m so grateful she was able to pass at home, with the breeze coming in and the birds chirping. I’m grateful for the care by her hospice team, and the way they shared how much they came to respect, love, and enjoy her. I’m on my knees grateful for my sisters, and so proud to be the daughters of Trudy with them. And I’m grateful for the dear friends and family who have been supporting us and jumping into the deep conversations, or sending food, flowers, and messages filled with love. And to my friend Annie, who has taught me so much about grief, death, and dying through her wisdom, experience, and heart.
Shortly after she passed I stepped outside, my phone in hand since I’d just sent some important texts. I felt a need to capture that present moment, as nature felt like it was absorbing this monumental shift of spirit, a moment that I didn’t want to forget.
Up until this day we had a little memo board at the end of mom’s bed with the date and happenings. We didn’t get to it the morning she passed, but I was able to tell her, “Today is Saturday, June 12, and it’s a beautiful day.”