Mom and dad were getting ready to fly home. They had just spent two weeks with us, mostly with our boys – their grandchildren. It had been a difficult visit. My mother’s heath was declining. As she hugged me she quietly whispered, “I am just tired of being touched.” My mind drifted to a day thirty years earlier, I was 5 and my sister was 3, we went to the hospital for Christmas Eve dinner. I still remember the meal – turkey, mashed potatoes and brown gravy with green beans on the side. Each plate was covered with a stainless steel meal warmer. I cannot recall where my father sat, but my sister and I sat near the head of the bed at an adjustable table. We ate and watched my mother. She was sick, very sick. The doctors did not expect her to live. We were granted special permission to be there after visiting hours.
When my mother hugged me on that day, I was sad, but not panicked. In my mind this was just another moment of sickness. Mom and dad got on the airplane and flew home. The first hint that I was about to enter into a new normal was when my sister called me from the airport later that day. Mom wasn’t doing well; she was bleeding and nothing seemed to stop the flow.
There I was in that room watching the medical profession do everything they could to save my mother. They went about their tasks with tenderness and love. The nurse slipped quietly out of the room. For the first time since I arrived, my mom spoke to me. Her words were simple, “Don’t let them touch me, I’m ready to go home.”
Within five minutes the medication took over and my mother drifted into a restless sleep. I made my way to the nurse’s station. I called my sister, then my dad. We talked about mom’s final wishes. She had been clear with all of us – no extraordinary measures and no experiments. I hung up and spoke with the nurses, who dialed the doctor’s phone number. His voice was kind and soft, we talked about what they were doing to my mom. By the end of the call I requested that they stop all treatment and make my mom comfortable. I would not wish this conversation on my worst enemy. Within the hour the medical staff came in and unplugged my mother.
The next day I shared what was to be my final conversation with my mother. I don’t remember all the details of what we talked about, but we held hands and eventually she said, “Thank you.”
24 hours later I flew home.
Ten days after that she passed away.