Dear Vi: It's a blessing to share with family members the way you do.

When all else fails, love remains. Thanks for sharing your experience with us.

I'm sorry for the pain you and your family are going through. I'll add you all to my prayer list. Please remember that God cares for you and yours in this difficult time too. May His love give you strength. He is the Good Shepherd, that will not leave you alone in the darkest valley of sorrow and death.

Vi, I remember so well when my mom was dying of cancer.

Be with her, love her, affirm her, and give her the peace she needs to leave this earth and cross over to where she will live without pain and suffering.

I'm praying for all of you.

If you have time there'a an excellent book,
Final Gifts : Understanding the Special Awareness, Needs, and Communications of the Dying. It's absolutely beautiful and helpful beyond your imagination. I read it when Mom was dying and learned so much.

How sad for you all. I will pray for her and her family and you and yours and hope you can all remember the good times with your sister....I am truly deeply sorry...

Thanks to all of you for your ongoing support. It is refreshing. There was a period of my life when bad things happened and no one was there.

Thanks for the recommendation of the book Dotsie.
I found it at the library. I pick it up on Friday. And I plan to buy a copy.

Now for an update relative to my sister.

The day after I made the tape for Anita, I mailed the package and then went to our small public phone utility to find out what was available locally relative to receiving phone calls while I'm online - for the emergency call from my sister's family that is surely coming. I learned of my options - all poor for full-time writers/artists who have yet to make a living at it. The only viable option was $50 a month for DSL. This is more than our strict budget allows.

While I was talking to Rhonda, the receptionist at the phone company, about Anita, I felt the heaviness oppressing me, like it has been since learning of the prognosis. I had known it was coming, but as you all know and some of you have said, when it actually arrives is something else again. I talked to her about my sister, and she asked about my brother - which I have mentioned in a reply to another posting under the murdered category and the book I'd written about that.

Three fourths of my way through the conversation a local colorful guy, Jose, former rocket scientist and amateur philosopher came in. He and I have had many extensive conversations about life, the meaning of it, reality, etc. He looked at me and told me there was something different about me, that my aura had change. I felt the change. It felt dark, heavy, intense. I told him that my sister is dying - that's what he saw. He said that usually I have a lot of confidence and it all effervesces from me and that that had changed.

On the way home I got to thinking about his comments, and all the losses I've experienced. I began analyzing what I was feeling. I realized that some of what I was feeling was my own grief, but some of it was the grief of my family members. I felt some of what my brother-in-law, Dan, is feeling because of the death of my boy friend of pancreatic cancer in 1988. I felt some of what my sister's kids are feeling because of losing my dad in 1983 when I was 34. Empathy is a biggy for me, but it can be debilitating. The words that kept coming to me were - this is not my heartache. Yes, I have my own impending loss, but.... I began to think what I've learned from my losses - I've considered this upteen times over the years. But here I was again. I began to think that some of what we perceive as bad things will always happen on this level of existence - here on Earth. I made a conscious decision not to be leveled by them every time -easy to say, harder to put into practice. There has to be a better way of dealing with "bad things" personally, and I'm not talking about faith here. This is not a crisis of faith. I'm talking about finding a way to dissolve the heaviness oppressing me.

So like I do sometimes when I'm alone, I talked aloud to God. A lot of my thoughts are really ongoing conversations with God. So I said to God that I choose not to let this kind of thing oppress me anymore. I asked for help with this, of course, and I began to say I am light. It's not just that I wanted God's light to surround me, but rather that I am that light. I thought of the little song we sang in Sunday school - "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine." I didn't feel the heaviness lift right away. It's a discipline thing for me - I'm practiced at depressing myself. But the heaviness did ease. There's a mantra that goes with this kind of thing, one that came to me some years ago: I am the light. I am the heart of God. I am the soul of the One. So I said it again and repeatedly.

This was last Friday. On Monday, two days ago, I went down to my mom's and picked her up. She no longer has a driver's license. I took her up to see my sister. It's two hours south to Mom's, three hours north to my sisters, then it's an hour south to my house. Before I left Phil, my husband, said, "Remember you are there to love. You are not there to solve their problems, just to give love." I always want to fix things for everyone, so I have to keep his words in mind.

We arrived at Anita and Dan's. She is obviously so ill - she now has the look of one who is dying. It was the first time I had seen it on her. Apparently she had hardly been off the couch during the day, since she got out of the hospital a week earlier, the last time I saw her. A number of her family members were there. They'd come to visit Mom and me, but mostly I think it was Mom - a grandma thing. I visited with them, in my sister's presence and away from her. It was a good visit.

Yesterday I got an email from my sister's daughter - we haven't emailed before. She said that the visit did her mother a lot of good, that after we were gone her mother got off the couch and began playing computer games with her four-year-old great grandson. My niece said she hoped I came back real soon, that it was the first time there had been life in the house for a week. I told her that my husband, Phil and I, will be back next week the day after her parents' appointment with hospice.

Today, Dan let us know that the doctor gave Anita stronger medication for pain yesterday, and she slept through the night for the first time in a long time.

There are a number of reasons that over the years I have not been around my sister's family much - only occasional family things. But I do love them. During that time I've been healing myself, growing, becoming. My current growth step is to become light full-time.

This brings to mind something one of my spiritual mother's said to me once. Her son was terminally ill when he was a toddler. The doctors had given up. She had heard of a healer. Even though she didn't believe in this kind of thing at the time, she took her son to the healer. She said, "I never saw the man. All I saw was the light." Her son was healed.

I seek to be the light - a light. We all are really, even if we aren't aware of it. We are all part of the heart-light of God.

"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine."

Vi, I am so moved by your post. You've touched on so many things that I have struggled with in the past. When I first posted, I'd written something else entirely but decided, for some reason, not to post it. But I did save it and I'm going to paste it here now.

My mom courageously battled throat cancer for a year. She had her voice box removed and went into remission after several lengthy and rather dangerous surgeries but about 2 months after being cured, the cancer came back and it wasn't long before she was pronounced terminal.

We brought her home and between my step-dad, my husband, and my two sisters, we cared for her. There came a time when she was pretty much unconscious because of her pain medication. We continued to talk to her and I constantly read the Psalms to her. I too am someone who wants to fix things but I knew this was beyond me. I also knew that each of our family members was dealing with my mom's impending death in their own ways. But, suddenly, a sense of peace descended on me and I looked at my mother. The pain etched on her face was heartbreaking but God still surrounded me with His peace.

Anyway, several weeks later it was my turn to care for mom during the night -- she required 24/7 care with medication administered every 2 hours. Most of the family would have the TV on and so when I came I'd shut it off and this night I played her most favorite music ... Elvis singing gospel songs. Then I sat down and talked to her, telling her it was okay for her to leave us. Unknowingly, each of my sisters (on the previous two nights) had told her the same thing. You see, she was living much longer than the doctors ever predicted. Anyway, after talking to her for a while, lovingly holding her hand and kissing her cheek, I began reading the Psalms again because I knew she loved to hear them.

We always kept a close eye on her chest -- it was the only way we knew she was alive. We'd had to keep lots of scented candles lit and as I sat alone, I noticed several candles flickering ... as if someone had walked into the room. I thought my step-dad might have awakened and so I went into the kitchen, planning to join him in a cup of coffee. But he wasn't there. I double checked and saw he was sleeping. I went back to my mother's side. Again, the candles danced. There were no doors or windows open ... no drafts. I went back to watching the slight raising and lowering of my mother's chest wondering what I would do if she stopped breathing. I'd never been with anyone when they died and I suddenly was filled with such fear.

Then a wonderful peace surrounded me. And I knew. It was time. I sensed I was in the presence of two angels who had come to accompany my mother Home. I moved to the other side of my mom and looked at her face. I'll never forget what I saw. All the lines were gone and there was a beautiful peace in the smooth skin. She looked years younger than 73. Without going into detail let me just say that over the weeks, my mother's face had been a reflection of the pain from her cancer and could've been used as a model for a halloween mask. No more. The horror was replaced with beauty and peace. I leaned down and kissed her cheek and told her I'd see her again. And then she stopped breathing. I stood there for a moment and then rushed and called to my dad and told him I thought mom was gone. Then I went back to her side.

I stood quietly still in the presence of the Holy Spirit. Again, the candles flickered as if people were walking through the room. I thought to myself, she was there when I came into this world and now I have the honor of being with her when she is leaving this world. I'll never know why, but my stepdad allowed me to be with my mom ... to say this final goodbye.

It was an awesome experience. I hadn't expected anything like that but I knew it was real.

Death is a certainty for all of us. How we deal with it is our choice. I truly admire you for the choice you've made. Yes, it is easy to get caught up in how others are reacting to the loss. But to be a light ... what a blessing you will be for the rest of the family.

You continue to be in my prayers.

Blessings, Francine

Vi, thanks for the update. I was moved to tears. Please take the time to read that book. You will feel blessed and continue to be that blessing/light to your extended family. You are doing an awesome job. I'm praying for your role as light!

Everyone feels differently about death. I believe if we are comforatble with the afterlife/heaven, then dying is a beautiful event. We hurt because we are no longer going to be with the one we love, but we must celebrate for the one who is finally crossing over. It is their final gift.

Writergirl, your post also brought me to tears. So many of your experiences with your mom were similar to mine. I can't believe it. Mom died of lung cancer. I had never witnessed someone basically get in bed and stay there until they died. Now I know why the hospice nurses were invaluable. They'd seen it over and over again. I witnessed it once and learned so much.

You mentioned your mom living longer than expected. So did Mom. My birthday is the 12th of March and I really thought she was going to die that day because the nurses said she only had a teeny space left in one lung. They were loaded with fluid. Mom died on St. Patrick's Day, the 17th!

That morning the hospice nurse took all of aside and said, "You have to leave your Mom alone. Don't talk to her. Don't touch her. Just go in the room, put the dropper of medicine in the side of her mouth and leave".

Dad and all five of Mom's children camped out at their home for days before she died. We took turns through the night tending to her. The nurse said it was time to leave her alone and let her die. She believed we were distracting her with our words and strokes. It sounds terrible, but she was right. ENOUGH! Mom knew we loved her, thought she was an awesome mom, and knew she was going to heaven. It was time.

For the rest of that day we did as the nurse said. We went in, put the dropper of morphine in her mouth, said nothing, and left often with tears streaming. It didn't feel right.

After eating our corned beef and cabbage in the other room (we're Irish, Mom's mother died on Valentine's Day, and her sister on the Fourth of July) Mom died. It was my turn to do the morphine. I went in and there was total silence. I immediately ran to the other room to get Dad and tell the others. No one believed me. Dad went in, stayed a bit of time, then came to tell us Mom's life on earth was over.

We all took our turns saying our private farewells. Then we cleaned her up, powdered and pampered her for the last time. We dressed her in our favorite lavendar pajamas, then hovered in another room when the men from the funeral home came to take her away. Dad didn't want us to witness that. So sweet!

Vi,
I haven't been able to respond sooner, but wanted you to know that your pain and situation have touched me deeply and I'm keeping you in heart-prayer (along with Ben in Afghanistan) [I can't remember whose son Ben is, but he's been deeply entrenched in my heart and being, and so are you now].

Francine, your story about your Mom (and Dotsie's too) also moved me to tears. I lost my Mom to cancer almost three years ago...I wanted to have the same story as yours, but after staying with her all night, hubby finally stepped in at 5am and insisted I go lay down in the waiting room couch for 20 minutes. He stayed with her, and it was as if she had refused to die while any of her children were in the room (it would have been like her to want to protect us from that pain, even though we all WANTED to be with her at that moment), because 5 minutes after I left, she died.

I'm still grieving, and have had a very tough time with that grief, but like Dotsie says, when one has faith in the afterlife, it's a bittersweet grief. I'm miss her so much, but am really happy she's where she is now. And I have the joyous blessing of looking forward to seeing her again someday.

Vi, we're praying for/with you and keeping you close in our hearts throughout this tough journey. I hope our care and heart-prayers keep you warm and safe all along the way.

[ June 09, 2005, 03:23 PM: Message edited by: Eagle Heart ]

I just want to say it is amazing how similar our circumstances are. I know my mom hung on because she didn't want to leave us ... knowing how much we would miss her. She lived at least 3 weeks longer than she was supposed to. Still, there's something about that connection with those you love.

I still miss her but her cancer her brought her to know the Lord and now I have the comfort of a future homecoming with her.

Vi, just remember, the one we love live on in our hearts and memories.

Blessings, Francine

Francine - Thank you. I'm so honored that you chose to share your experience with your mom's passing. My thought is that when the lines left her face, and she looked serene, by then her spirit had left her body, so she no longer felt the pain, and she was standing with the angels watching you, saying goodbye, loving you, embracing you in that love. She did the best she could to be sure you would be all right - consummate, pure and perfect mother's love. It's really Divine love, I believe. And then she allowed her body to die. What a gift she gave you.

Dotsie - Wow. Thank you. You, too, bless me with your sharing - to lose Mom in such a way - so difficult to get through. Yes, I agree it can be beautiful. To be with someone in their final moments is the most intimate, loving experience we can have, even though it is ripping our hearts out. I agree about the hospice helpers being such a God-send. My boyfriend, Gary, died in the hospice unit of a hospital.

Eagle Heart - Thank you, too, for sharing your heart with me. Three years can be an interminable amount of time to feel the pain/the loss. Getting over Gary's death took me years, even though I made a new life for myself with a loving man. The loss remained. Thankfully, he was mature and loving enough to allow me to heal myself as I needed to. And when it is your mother - I remember what Aunt Lottie, my grand aunt, said once. Her mother had been gone probably twenty years by then. Aunt Lottie was probably eighty years old when she said, "Without your mother, what do you have...?" Her words trailed off into infinity.

Aunt Lottie was a strong, spiritual, old woman. She was 45 years older than me. When I asked her how she dealt with all the losses, she said most of the time she was all right with it, but once in a while they ganged up on her.

A dear friend, Tosca, died, a death I did not hear about until 9 months afterwards, and I learned about it when I was in the middle of handling another crisis. I couldn't put Tosca's death to rest. She was someone I thought would live to be very old. She could heal herself quickly of any health malady. She was loving, pure of spirit, talented, creative. So when I learned of her death I was stunned. She was 76. I felt cheated, the loss unacceptable. This went on for two years. I am a painter, and I'm learning to do likeness. I love painting people. So I decided to paint a picture of Tosca. While I was painting this picture I talked aloud to her. I told her how upset I was that she had died. I told her how I missed her. I talked to her about a lot of things. By the time the painting was complete, I had accepted her death.

I think it was Eienstein who said, "We stand on the shoulders of giants." Aunt Lottie and Tosca are two of the giants I stand on. I am a better person because of them. But oh, I miss them so much sometimes. So much. And yes, I'm glad they are in a place where they can learn and grow. But for me, selfishly....

The death of the physical body leaves the rest of us perplexed how to deal with it on this level. I mean, even when we have a belief that says the person's spirit is now with God, and they are fine, still.... We have a void, an emptiness. Mom/Dad/our loved one is no longer sitting in their favorite chair. The house where they lived rings with the emptiness, even if others are present. We can no longer touch their skin. We can no longer see the love, the ways they could get upset, hear the things they have to say. I was amazed after my boyfriend, Gary, died how quickly I forgot what his voice sounded like. I longed to hear his voice again. After Dad died I longed to see him sitting in the easy chair pretending not to have tears in his eyes when he watched a sad movie. I longed to have my loved ones alive again, so they could annoy me. Yes, annoy me. We always talk about the good qualities in our loved ones who have died. But let's face it, all of them annoyed us at times, and we annoyed them.

And then there are those well-meaning people who say to us, "Turn it over to God. He will comfort you." Yes, of course, but during the worst of the pain, I long to touch the other person's skin. God doesn't have skin I can touch. The physical emptiness rings in pain.

I've come to believe that we are God's skin.

Vi

Vi ... you're beautifully written post moved me to tears. Thank you, thank you, thank you for what you described regarding my mom. What a wonderful picture I have that I will always hold in my heart.

You are a very courageous and sensitive woman and thank you for minister to me.

Hugs and blessings, Francine