“Saturday, August 1st:
Dad calls me in the morning and tells me youâve had a rough night. He doesnât explain much but I pick up a worried tone, something I havenât heard before. I already had plans on coming out to spend the weekend with you, but now Iâm quickly gathering my stuff faster than I normally would. Driving to Plano, I talk myself down and try to convince myself it was just another typical rough night, Iâm just overthinking it, and everything is going to be okay. Weâre hungry, we pick up Chick-fil-A, and head to your house.
Youâre not in the living room or at the kitchen table when we get there. I think to myself itâs weird, but not out of the ordinary. I sit and begin to eat. Dad walks in and looks tiredâŠtired and scared. ‘I didn’t want to tell you over the phone,’ he begins. My ears perk up immediately. ‘Your mom couldn’t breathe last night.’ Couldnât breathe? What does that mean? ‘Gasping for air,’ is what he says in response. I drop my food and ask where you are. Youâre asleep, in bed, at 10:00 a.m. You never sleep this late. I make my way to your room, and from the hallway I can hear your breathing. Loud breaths. Labored. Abnormal. I come in and look at youâyou donât know Iâm there. You usually do. You donât know Iâm watching and listening to your breaths. I know those breaths. Iâve heard those breaths echoing from dying patientâs rooms. The tears well up in my eyes and I have to blink them away so I can find my way to your bedside.
I lay down with you and let out a loud cry, maybe even a scream. I know whatâs happening. Youâre starting to die. I canât stop crying. I rub your arms to gain your attention and you finally flicker open your eyes. Youâre burning up. You have a fever. I tell dad to find Tylenol and rip the covers off of your tiny body. Your muscles which used to carry your body have completely wasted away. I canât stop crying. Youâre mumbling but I canât truly make out what youâre saying. Then I hear it, ‘Pain.’ I tell dad to get the morphine and the Ativan. I give it to you. I tell dad I have a bad feeling because I canât bear to tell him what I truly think is happening.
I donât know how long goes by, but you start to become more alert. Your fever is starting to break. A flicker of hope runs through me when you ask to move into the living room. Michelle and I try to get you comfy in your chair but end up moving you to the couch. Youâre comfier there. Youâre talking a little bit more, more coherent. But the pain returns. So I give you morphine and you rest. Michelle starts to play your favorite music from your iPad. You gently sing along to your favorites. I talk to dad and tell him we need to tell Cheri. He debates, thinking youâll make it out of this. I guess youâre doing a little better, maybe I was wrong…maybe death isnât on our doorstep.
Dad reminds me we have a meeting with the funeral home today. How ironic. Cheri is here now. She looks worried. We all look worried. We all sit on your bed while dad talks to the man from the funeral home. I stare up into your canopy and think, ‘This canât be happening,’ but it is happening. I think about how all these years have led up to this moment and, ultimately, this weekend. We all knew it was coming but it doesnât make losing you any easier. Chad and I decide to go sit outside by the pool for a while. Days after youâre gone, Iâll question myself on why I let an hour or two slip away. Why did I do it? I donât know. Maybe to process whatâs going on? Maybe to escape the reality of it all? I donât know. I donât think I will ever know. Youâre uncomfortable again. I give you morphine and then we reposition you so youâre lying on your back with your favorite pillows surrounding you. We keep the music going for you and swap turns being by your side. Your fever is back. As I’m drawing up your Tylenol, I start praying for different things.
‘God, please donât take her… not yet.’
‘God, if this is it, please donât let her suffer long.’
I donât know if Heâs listening to me but I have to try. I have a hard question to ask you and Iâm scared of the answer. ‘Should I tell Peyton to come home?’ I ask. You reply, ‘No…vacation.’ Iâm holding your hand and thinking about how selfless and strong you are. Is it possible you donât think this is the end? This gives me another glimpse of hope. But even then, in my heart, I know whatâs going to happen. I tell dad Iâm worried again. I can tell he is, too. Your oxygen levels are starting to get low. Iâm scared because I know what this means. We need an oxygen machine, and we need it fast. We call hospice and they tell us theyâre sending someone out to deliver a machine. Youâre in pain again, more morphine. You want to be moved back to bed, so we carefully lift you from the couch into your chair. Every touch hurts you and I can see itâs killing dad to see you in so much pain. It takes three of us to get you in bed and you fall asleep quicklyâŠmaybe from the morphine, or maybe itâs because your body is starting to shut down. I plan on sleeping with you tonight, little do I know it will be the last time.
Clunk, hiss. Beep, beep, beep. The d*mn oxygen machine keeps beeping every twenty minutes, saying there is an error. I get up, restart it, and then get in bed. Twenty minutes later the beeping starts again, but itâs time for your medicine, anyway. Morphine, Ativan, hyoscyamine, and a gentle turn to your left so you donât get a bedsore. Youâre not giggling like you normally do when I move youâyou barely even open your eyes. I notice your hands have curled into fists and your nails are leaving marks on your hands. I grab washcloths and roll them up and place them in your hands so you wonât hurt your delicate skin. Your body is slowly turning rigid before my eyes. Your breaths are labored and sharp. I wipe away some tears and get back in bed with you. I hold you like you used to hold me when I was a little girl. I rub your hand and tell you I love you. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. I yell any expletive I can think of and get up and start the process all over again. Fix oxygen machine, cry, give medications, cry, turn your limp body, cry, and repeat the process until the morning. I pray tomorrow will be better.
Sunday, August 2nd:
Spoiler alert: you donât get better today. You stay in bed late again. I lie to myself and think today is the day you get better. Youâre going to get up and want to put on your makeup, mess with Chad and eat ice cream. This, of course, doesnât happen. We do finally get you to say you want to be moved to the living roomâŠand so we put you on your side of the couch, in a nest of comfy pillows. We play music for you. Youâre not as responsive todayâŠyou give us some nods, and a yes or no, but not much else. No smiles or laughter, I think thatâs what hurts the most. Youâre tired of fighting and I can see it.
Your fever is back. I give you your medications and tell dad I think itâs time to give them around the clock. I need him to call our hospice nurse, Wendy. We call her and she tells us to just keep you comfortable and sheâll be out tomorrow morning. Itâs interesting what happens during the last days before someone with a terminal illness dies. The hours are long but extremely short. Reality feels like a dream. People come and go, the real friends stay. The worry and anticipation are unbearable. All you can do is watch your loved one start to drift away, and thereâs no imaginary tether to reel them back in. If I could, I would selfishly reel you back in, momma. Just for one more day with you.
I snap back into reality when Cheri calls me in the room. With a worried look on her face, she asks me to redo your blood pressure. I slip the band around your tiny arm and press start. 60/40. I donât mean to, but I burst into tears and leave the room for a second, because itâs happening…dying has officially started. Death has graciously given us two days with you, but now God has decided to bring you home to Him. I come back in the room and tell everyone to lay you on your back, with your feet up. Youâre not really responsive, except the winces when we move you. I know I have to ask the question again, ‘Do I need to tell Peyton to come home?’ Your eyes flicker and you mouth the word, âYesâ. My eyes well upâŠI knew you were dying, but now you know it, too.
‘Peyton, you need to come home,’ I say. I donât have the right answers for her questions and canât articulate what I want to say…but, in hindsight, I think thatâs because I donât want to say it. My sister is confused and I have to hand the phone to Chad to explain. How do I tell her youâre actively dying? What words of comfort are there for someone who is across the country and helpless? I sit in the formal living room and look around the roomâeverything is you. The paintings, the blue and white vases, the rugs, the pillows…everything. I hear Chad talking to Peyton and then dad. I watch their somber faces and how slowly they’re moving. Everyone knows now. My sister and her family book the next flight out of Boston.
Cheri is making chicken parmesan in the kitchen. I think she knows the next couple of days are going to be long. Dad is slowly starting to update your closest friends and family. I think I hear some are planning on coming down from Oklahoma to see you (say goodbye). Lisa and Jim are here now. Theyâre shaken after seeing how much you have declined. I look at you, you look uncomfortable. Itâs time for your medications. I give them to you and ask if you want to get in your bed and you nod. I start to cry, because something is telling me you wonât be leaving your bed once we get you there.
We move you and make you comfortable. Dad and I notice your Foley catheter bag is empty. We look at each other with tears in our eyesâwe both know your kidneys are shutting down. I stay with you. My head is in your lap and I play every Beatles song I can find. In this moment, I wish you could just stroke my hair or hold my hand like you used to. I want you to comfort me, I need you to comfort me. But you canât and never will again. It makes me angry, but soon anger turns to sadness. How many times can a heart shatter in a matter of two days? Itâs a silly question to ask myself, since my heart has been breaking since I was twenty-three.
Cheri has Kristen on the phone, she holds her up to your ear and Kristen tells you how she loves you, wishes she could be here, and reminisces on funny memories. Chad has his parents on the phone, he holds them up to your ear and they tell you how lucky they are to have met you and become a part of our family, and they love you. I have Peyton on the phone, I hold her up to your ear and she tells you how much she loves you and is coming home. You canât talk but I know you can hear all of them, I know itâs comforting to you. Jill is here now, a gut feeling has made her come home early from the lake. That feeling was God.
Weâre sitting around the table and Iâm debating with my family on whether or not I should go to my new treatment tomorrow morning. ‘Your mom wouldâve wanted you to go.’ ‘Youâve been waiting for months to get into this treatment.’ But how in the world can I leave your side right now? Iâve been with you from the beginning, and can’t bear to think about not being there in the end. I think back to how happy you were when I signed up for this new treatment…all the questions you asked and hope it brought you. You were proud of me. That is the one and only reason I choose to go.
Monday, August 3rd:
Early in the morning, I come downstairs and get in bed with you. Your breathing is worse. Labored, agonal breaths. Iâm scared. I know today could be the day. I squeeze your hand and snuggle in next to you. I know this might be the last time I get to talk to you. So, as tears stream down my face, I tell you how much you mean to me, how great of a mother you were to us, how you are my best friend, how Iâll never laugh the same with anyone else. You have touched so many lives, and things are never going to be the same without you. The last thing I tell you is Iâll be back in two hours, and to wait for me. You flutter your eyes and try to squeeze my hand. You hear me. I squeeze you one last time, kiss your cheek, tell you I love you, and leave.
I cry on the way to my appointment. I cry talking to the doctor. I check in with dad during the treatment and he tells me things are still the same. Itâs a relief. Chad picks me upâhe has no new news. Five minutes later, I see dadâs phone number pop up on Chadâs dashboard. My heart sinks. Chad looks at me and before he can say anything I click to accept the call. ‘Sheâs breathing once per minute, try to hurry.’ No, no, no. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I am supposed to be there. You are supposed to wait for me. Iâm not supposed to be twenty minutes away from you. I kick and scream and sob. I know Iâm not going to make it in time. This is my worst nightmare. I hate myself for going to this appointment. I’m supposed to be there. I sob and yell the whole way to Plano.
As we pull onto our street, I jump out of the still-moving car and start running to the front door. Cheri opens it. Her face is white and somber. I know I haven’t made it in time. I keep running, through the hallway and the living room to your room. You are gone. I jump on the bed and cradle your head in my arms and sob something terrible. My tears are pouring over your face. I ask you to come back. I tell you how sorry I am for not being there. I tell you I love you. I can tell there are other people in the room now but I don’t care, I continue to sob and rock back and forth with you in my arms. Then I can hear a priest starting to pray over you and all I want is for him to stop. This is making it too real.
I donât know how long I hold onto you for, but it must be a while, because our hospice nurse kindly asks if she can bathe you. I let you go and your head tilts to the side with your mouth agapeâyour skin has a yellow tint to it. This was the part I was most scared ofâŠseeing you like this. You really are gone. I step out of your room and sob some more. This must be a dream. The next couple of hours are a blur. People coming and going. Text messages and phone calls. People making plans to bring food. Sometime during the chaos, Becca has done your hair and makeupâshe knows you wouldâve wanted that. I walk into your room and I canât even begin to explain how beautiful you look. Your face is smooth and glowing. The makeup is subtle, yet elegant. Your body is relaxed and at peace. You are, in every sense of the word, an angel.
As I look at you, I find myself yearning to feel some sort of relief. I want to be happy you’re no longer suffering. But I’m not happy. I want you here with me. I want one last joke. I want one last laugh. I want one last hug. I want one last ‘I love you.’ I want you back. It’s not fair. I’m mad. I hate this. I hate everything about it. You’re not coming back to me. There isn’t going to be one last joke. There isn’t going to be one last laugh. There isn’t going to be one last hug. There isn’t going to be one last ‘I love you.’ I cry and scream into my pillow after they take you away in that horrible, black body bag. You’re not supposed to be gone.
I think back to our conversation in Maine. The time when you asked me to promise you I’d be okay. I promised, but I lied. I donât think Iâm ever going to be okay without you.”
This story was submitted toâŻLove What MattersâŻby Chandler of Texas. Submit your own storyâŻhere, and be sure toâŻsubscribe to our free email newsletter for our best stories, andâŻYouTube for our best videos.
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