It took me more than a month to start this post, and I've had to come back to it multiple times to finish. It's still so hard for me to wrap my brain around this new reality.
On January 20th, we were down in Atlanta to watch the National Championship game: Notre Dame vs Ohio State. We were so excited! And even better, Memere and Pepere were there, plus Uncle Jon and Dane.
The night before, we'd gone to the pep rally to watch the band play and see the festivities. My parents met us there and we were all smiles. It was crowded, so we didn't stay long -- we knew we'd be at the game together the next day. We hugged good bye and said we loved each other. That was the last time I talked to my mom.
The next day, while getting ready for the game in their hotel room, my mom suffered an aortic dissection and collapsed to the floor, unresponsive. My dad called 911 and rushed her to the hospital. He called me and Jon, and we called Patrick.
Together, we made the awful, agonizing, terrible decision not to pursue extreme measures to keep my mom alive. It was such a gut-wrenching thing to consider, and even worse to say out loud. But we knew it wouldn't be what my mom wanted, and there was little chance she would survive even if the doctors tried everything.
Jon and I raced to the hospital in an Uber. Thank God for MJ -- he stayed with the kids. Patrick started driving to Atlanta, and we all prayed he'd arrive in time.
He did. For several hours that night, we were all together one last time. My mom was comfortable and lay quietly in her hospital bed while we sat with her and took turns holding her hands. A priest visited the room to pray with us and give a special blessing to my mom.
I whispered in her ear, telling her how much I loved her, how I wasn't ready to say good-bye to her. I prayed the rosary with her, the beads intertwined between our fingers. And I told her that I'm the person I am -- and the mother I am -- because of her.
I'm so glad we're the type of family to not leave anything left unsaid. We've always been very open about saying "I love you." So she knew how much we all loved her, and we knew how much she loved us. That was such a blessing to me in that hospital room: knowing that I'd told her what a wonderful mother she was, that we'd spent so much special time together, shared so much and had so many wonderful memories. There are no regrets.
Eventually the hospice staff removed the breathing tube. My mom looked so peaceful. We hugged each other in a tight circle around her as the beeping of the machines slowed and then stopped. It was so surreal, and it felt really wrong to leave. We all drove back to our respective hotels. It was after 2am, but kids were waiting up for me, and I had to tell them that their Memere was gone. I lay in the hotel bed and sobbed while MJ held me tightly.
How can she be gone?? She was so alive and such an important part of my life. How can it be that I'll never speak to her again?
The next morning I drove back to our house with my dad, while MJ drove the kids in our car. From there my dad and I drove to his house, and I stayed for a few days. We took care of some awful but necessary things, like informing all her friends, picking out her gravesite, and making all the arrangements with the funeral home. Jon and Patrick each came to visit and spend time with my dad, too.
The funeral was three weeks later. I was touched by the outpouring of support our family received from all the various communities my mom belonged to: church, neighborhood, book club, friends. Kris, Carol, Linda and Tina all came, and I am so grateful. And through it all, MJ held everything together at home for almost a month while I was completely out of commission, either out of town or sick in bed with flu and a bad eye infection. I am so thankful to have him.
And now we all have to adjust to our world without her. I know without a doubt that she went straight to heaven, and that I'll see her again someday. But right now it's really, really hard.
