This post was a difficult one for me to write. It’s a very condensed version of the last hour I spent with my mother. She passed away on 23rd April 2004.
I sat by the bed and held her hand. She writhed in pain in her drug-induced coma; soft moans escaped her dry lips, piercing me through the heart like poison-tipped arrows.
I spoke words of comfort and love, not knowing if she could hear me, but hoping just the same. Wishing my voice would penetrate through the pain so she knew I was there and wasn’t alone; praying she could feel my hand and derive some solace from it.
Her soft moans became agonised cries and I called for a nurse. Responding quickly, the uniformed angel explained the morphine wasn’t enough and a heroin/morphine mix would have to be administered. She bustled away, returning minutes later with a syringe. The contents were injected and the cries ceased.
Fifteen minutes later, her breathing changed, became laboured and I called the nurse again. After one glance, she turned to me, her sad eyes. “I’m sorry, she’s going.”
“Please, call my family?” I asked. She nodded. Somehow I knew they wouldn’t arrive in time.
I sat and cuddled Mum in her hospital room until she stopped breathing.
I felt Dad’s spirit by her bed – he waited for her – and despite my grief, I was glad they were reunited.