Waving Goodbye on the Way to Heaven
“We should talk.” My mother says this to me from where she sits tucked into the corner of the family room’s L sharped sectional. “It won’t be much longer for me. I want to make sure you have the opportunity to say anything that shouldn’t be left unsaid?” There’s a heaviness and finality to her words.
“We’ve be talking our entire lives. There’s nothing we haven’t talked about or said to each other,” I calmly insist. I need her to believe this, so that no worry remains inside of her for me. And this is mostly true except for the parts of my life I edited from her knowledge before coming out to her and the rest of my family, but that hidden past is known now. And then of course there is what I do not share about my current life. The collapse of my long-term relationship and the end stages it is in, but that does not fall under the umbrella of things left unsaid between me and her. I made the decision to keep this to myself until after she is gone. Burdening her with worry for me while she loses her battle to cancer will not bring her peace.
“I’m quieting my mind. I’m not reading books or watching television or involving myself in things I can’t finish.” She shares her preparation for death with ease and acceptance.
“Are you afraid?
“No. I’m not afraid to die. I’m quite sure of where I’m going.” We both know she’s referring to heaven. She finishes answering my question by saying, “I’m afraid to suffer.”
She’s a nurse. She knows what lies ahead.
Through the years we’ve talked about faith, religion, near death experiences, relatives reaching out from the other side, and ghost stories. We’ve shared an eclectic combination of topics with the common theme “what happens to us when we die?” Unlike me, she possesses a deep and abiding faith. I describe my own as mustard seed faith that hasn’t grown into the strong tree Jesus spoke of in Matthew 17:20. It remains a tiny seed that often fails me. I should leave the conversation alone and be satisfied with knowing she is at peace with the idea that eternity awaits her but because of my tenuous faltering faith I can’t. I need, I want her reassurance.
“Will you send me a sign and let me know you’ve made it to where you’re going?”
Ever the mother wanting to comfort her child, she holds me in her gentle gaze and says, “If I can, I will.”
“I’m going to miss you. I can’t believe you’re going to leave me with Dad.” My comment brings some levity to our conversation.
An impish look creeps onto her face and she shrugs. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”
No, of course not.
There is one final expression of love she leaves with me when she says, “I am so glad you have a daughter. I hope you enjoy her as much as I have enjoyed you.”
And that is when the tears I fight to contain, spill down my cheeks.
Soulmate & Wife 
Nurse 
Grandmother 
Mother
The terminal progression of my mother’s illness smothers the essence of who she is in the ensuring weeks. A month later when I return to New York for Thanksgiving, she is childlike and anxiously paces the house, obsessed with the plastic feeding tube plugged into her belly. I return to Florida and wait for the call I know is coming.
On December 11, my father calls me while I am out to dinner with work colleagues. He tells me it’s time to return to New York; it won’t be long. I ask to speak to my mother’s cousin Amy who is also a nurse and is staying with my father to help him care for my mother in these final weeks. I ask her to tell my mother not to wait for me; to let go whenever she is ready. She is suffering. This is her one expressed fear of death. She doesn’t need to hang onto life so I can see her one last time. I want her fears banished, pain free and at peace. No more suffering.
I book a flight for early next morning. As I pack my bags and gather my things for an undetermined amount of time, I look to bring something personal belonging to my mother. Years earlier, my father gave me the first wedding ring he put on her finger. It is a thin gold band set with seven tiny diamonds. His father wed his mother with this ring. I slip it on my pinky finger.
The early morning flight from Tampa to New York is surreal flying 38 thousand feet above the earth while my mother struggles to let go of this life. Once this happens, I will never see her again. It doesn’t seem possible. She is more than my mother. She is also my best friend, and I was losing both. And what about my father? What will become of him? They married at 15 and 17. They’ve shared a lifetime. Six weeks earlier, they celebrated their 48th wedding anniversary. My mother’s goal was to make it to their 50th. “Everyone should have goals,” she told me that spring. This was hers.
I gaze out the plane’s oval window listening to music on my iPod. Midway through the flight, I get up to use the bathroom. As I make my way back to my seat, I encourage my hands to dry by briskly rubbing them together. My palm scrapes over something rough on the pinky finger where I wear my mother’s first wedding ring. I glance at the petite band of gold and notice one of the diamonds is gone. Damn it! Of all things to happen, I lose a diamond on the family heirloom I insisted on wearing like some security blanket to comfort me. I should have left it in the jewelry box.
Annoyed with myself, I make my way back to my seat. I slump into my chair while a Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli duet plays in my ears. I don’t understand any of the Italian words in the song Con Te Partiro, only the one singular phrase they sing in English – “time to say goodbye.” The song is one of my mother’s favorite songs. I stare at the empty setting on the wedding band once home to a tiny diamond. The clarity of this moment takes hold of me. She’s gone. I feel it. She’s gone. Overwhelming peace washes through me.
Paesi che non ho mai, Veduto e vissuto con te, Adesso si li vivrò, Con te partirò, Su navi per mari, Che, io lo so, No, no, non, esistono più, It’s time to say goodbye.
I look at my watch and note the time.
My Aunt Karen meets me at the airport. Before she can say anything, I immediately say to her “she’s gone,” as an affirmative statement, not a question. She nods and says “yes.”
I am sad and relieved yet filled with an indescribable serenity. When I arrive at my parent’s house, I ask her cousin Amy what time my mother died. The missing diamond that caught my attention and the song that announced her passing happened five minutes after she died. As we make funeral arrangements, gather with family and friends, mourn, eulogize, and bury my mother, the peace I feel and the strength I draw from this experience sustains me and brings me peace.
On my mother’s way to the other side of this life had she visited me at 38 thousand feet telling me it was “time to say goodbye”, demanding my attention with a missing diamond? Was this the sign I asked for or an interesting coincidence? I can’t prove anything about what happens to us when we die, but here is what I do know: mother’s seek to comfort their children and heal their wounds, and on the day my mother died, I had both comfort and healing.
Do you have a story of hope to share, of a loved one who reached out from the world beyond ours? Please share your experience in the comments or send me note at elaine@elainedwalsh.com.
If you want to follow my journey, please subscribe to my blog and share it with others who may be on a similar journey. In my next blog, I will share a sign caught on camera I can not explain away.
EPILOGUE
I met Christy five days before my mother died. Unfortunately, they never met. June 8 is my mother’s birthday. Had my mother lived, she would be celebrating her 75th birthday on the day this blog posts. Christy’s mother died 45 days after my mother. We often said they had a hand in bringing us together. You learn about a person’s character and values when going through such a significant moment such as the loss of a loved one. In a matter of months, we learned what sometimes takes years. We knew we had found soulmates in one another.
As for the “after I’m gone” conversation between me and Christy, it didn’t happened in the days before her death. Instead, unbeknownst to me, she entrusted that to our daughter, Courtney. Christy knew it would break me. Oh, and my mother’s hope that I would enjoy my daughter Courtney as much as she enjoyed me. I did and I am still.
Elaine D Walsh
Mom. Lesbian. Blogger. Writer. Theater & history nerd. Travel junkie. Wine lover. Spiritual soul on a journey
10 Comments
Linda Rumore
Thank you for the beautiful details of your moms passing , I’m
Sure that she is so very proud of the woman she raised Elaine ! My story is one of realizing how death changes the person who is leaving his world as well as those behind . My mom was not what you would call a ray of sunshine kind of person, nothing you had as far as illnesses could top anything she had ! Which was nothing , over the years when my Dad died at 56 I became the Mom , she was a drama queen thru and thru , so each time I would take her to her dr every 3 months to meet her HMO wellness requirements she would ask the dr with such seriousness “ Tell me Dr What’s my condition ? “ in my Moms world she was always in a condition or a situation ! So the dr would say “ you doing well Katie ! “ at one point he actually told her “your bloodwork is better than mine ! “
But not to her , she would go into her pity party which didn’t exist because in all her life was better than it had ever been ! Well on 2/18/18 Me and my Sister Lucy took her for her Medicare wellness EKG and bloodwork as always all was good ! She would tell us all which I have 4 sisters and a Brother , I’m the oldest she would say to us in her dramatic voice “ every night before I go to bed I say my prayers and tell the Lord “ If your ready to take me , I’m ready to go ! “ I would reply , well your given a time to be born and a time to die , read Ecclesiastics 3 ! And till the next time that was always her farewell to us , along with how she didn’t want to be a burden to her kids , but not really meaning that cause in her glee she would say I have 6 kids so everyone of you will have to have me live with them ! Me and my sister would drop her off and we would look at each other and I would say “ oh no I can’t do that, I’ll go back to work to hire someone to live with her ! “ as my sister also agreed none of us could handle it !
Well on 3/23/18 which is 3 days before her 86 birthday , me and my sister started out to pick her up to take her for her weekly shopping , we usually arrived around 11:15 , 11:30 so we could go to lunch first , but as we pulled in her carport driveway I knew something was wrong, her blinds weren’t open nor was her purse waiting by the door which it was usually slightly opened to head out , as soon as we got there , we pulled on the front door handle to realize it was locked , we knocked , no answer , then I took my keys out that she had given each of us one and opened the door which we entered in and could see her bedroom and her lying in her bed , as we approached the bed the closer I got I knee she was gone . One of the neighbors heard my sisters screams when we found her and as I called 911 , they called my moms Pastor who arrived shortly after 911 pronounced her dead , and as we waited for the funeral home to pick her up I lead her pastor to her room , he stood at the end of her bed and looked at her then looked at me and said “ look at your moms face , have you ever see that smile or peace on her face ? “ and I looked back at the bed and was like wow ! NO ! Never , and he then said “ if there is any doubt of where she is now ?? just look , there is proof she closed her eyes to go to sleep
And she is now in the presence of our Lord ! “ That is my last image of my Mom
And I cherish it cause to me that was my sign of a few things , one she had no pain in her death , which the dr and the autopsy confirmed, the cause of death was cardiac arrest , as well as she saw her new home in the minutes she was taken into heaven and The Lord granted her nightly request of taking her cause she was indeed ready to go !
Elaine D Walsh
Linda, you have such a big heart and love your willingness to share and be vulnerable. Thank you – love you!
Linda Rumore
Love you too Elaine ! You are strong and you will walk Thru this valley and Christy will always be in your heart … hugs my friend ! 💜
Gabriela
Beautiful piece Elaine. You continue to inspire us with your blog!
Thank you for sharing ..
Becky Heck
I had a similar experience with my dad. We had been told that his body was shutting down and was only going to be with us another 2-3 days, he was pretty cognizant until his last breath. I was driving to the nursing home Where he was at about a 30 mile drive in rush hour traffic. Normally I can get a little road rage-ery! About 5 miles to get to him, the traffic got exceptionally heavy, and I noticed this strange sense of calm, to the point of acknowledging it in my mind. When I got there I was still in a weird place of serenity and I chose to use the restroom in the lobby instead of the one in his room…don’t know why I did that. When I entered into his room, he had just taken his last breath about a minute before. I am convinced it was my dad who was orchestrating it all. I was daddy’s, 27 year old, little girl and I think he knew I couldn’t be there for those moments before he left.
I had never felt that way before and have not since. It was just a total, all consuming sense of peace and serenity.
Thank you for this memory.
Elaine D Walsh
Thank you for sharing. Sometimes we miss the signs that are right in front of us and I am glad I didn’t. Seems like you didn’t either.
Rosemary McConologue
Your Mom died exactly like she lived. With class and dignity and a giving heart. Our birthdays were two days apart and too this day I wish her a Happy Birthday. 🎂
Elaine D Walsh
I will never forget your’s and Denny’s kindness the week we mourned my mother. XOXO. Happy Birthday.
Karen Rigsby
Elaine, your story warms my heart. It reminds me of when my mother passed in 1997. She was suffering with an autosomal dominant and neurologically degenerative disease called Huntington’s Disease. It is described as having ALS, Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s at the same time. My Dad took care of her at home until the last 6 months. In December of 1997, he decided to take a bit of time for himself and went to visit family in California.
Mom showed signs of a bad lung infection a few days before Dad returned home. As there was a DNR on file, my brothers and I decided that Dad could not do anything except worry so we chose to let him enjoy his last two days in California.
On his return home, he landed at the airport at 9:00 pm on a winter’s night in December. On any other trip he had made over the years, he always stayed overnight in a hotel because the drive was 6 hours in winter weather in Northern Alberta, Canada. That night he says that he just felt like he wanted to drive home, that he felt good, was not tired and wanted to sleep in his own bed. When he arrived home there was note on the front door from my older brother telling him he needed to go see mom no matter what time he got home. He drove the 2 miles to the nursing home and spent the last 30 minutes of mom’s life with her. He never was angry that we didn’t call him home sooner. He says that he got to say I love you and good bye and that he was glad she was now at peace and settled.
I lost my Mom in 1997 and on June 10, 2017, my Dad was finally reunited with the love of his life. The last year we all knew that Dad was tired, he kept telling us he was ready but we all kept him busy and encouraged him to stick around a while longer. Then on a Sunday, just 4 days before he passed away he told me he was not feeling well. Living 3000 miles away, it was not possible to run over and check on him but I could hear that he didn’t want to try anymore. When we ended our phone call he said “if I don’t talk to you again, I’ll talk to you sometime later” At the time, I thought that was just his dutch/english version of “talk to you later” I guess it was his way of saying “good-bye”
Today is 3 years since I lost my Dad and he lives every minute of every day in my heart. I hear him in things I say and thoughts I have. I had a lifetime of advice, laughter, love and memories and I still dial his phone number in my dreams. He was a cranky old Dutchman who had a heart as big as the moon.
I leave you with his favorite way to say goodbye – “see you in the funny papers”
Karen
Elaine D Walsh
Karen, how special. Thank you for sharing your experiences.