She's gone.

Six days after Mom had the kidney tube removed.
Six days.
These were the most traumatic six days for our family in recent memory. After the tube was removed on Monday, she became increasingly tired almost by the hour. She stopped eating or drinking anything.
On Wednesday, she fell asleep, never to wake again, but was still somewhat responsive at first.
On Thursday, she stopped responding.
After six days, she passed away. It was the most peaceful thing I've ever seen in my life.

Knowing someone is going to be soon gone forever is painful in and of itself.
You try to prepare yourself.
You try to soften the blow.
But it doesn't work that way.
Because anticipating loss and experiencing the actual moment of it are two very different things.

We were able to identify when the moment was at our door by how her breathing changed.
She tried pulling air, but none was moving. Mom's body was finally shutting down.
From that point, it took about 7 minutes.
There were five of us with her. Me, my sister, her two kids ages 11 and 13, and Mom's lifelong friend who devoted herself to being there for her and us.

Mom had a CD of her favorite piano music playing on a loop for the whole week. My sister clicked it over to #3, "On Eagle's Wings", and turned up the volume for her to hear. It was a song she and my dad both loved.

"Is she choking??" my niece asked with a concerned tone in her voice.
My sister and I both said no, she's not choking.
"This is how we do it," I told her through grieving sniffles and flowing tears. "This is how we finally let go."
"This is the most natural thing in the world, honey. Look, she's so peaceful," my sister said.

Mom's attempted breaths became more and more sparse as the seconds passed. She was fading away.
"Go, Mom," we told her. "Dad's waiting. He's going to take you somewhere where there's no pain. There's no cancer. He's got the Scrabble board ready. You did everything you needed to here. You're all done now. You did so good with us, Mom. We've got it from here. You need to go home."

At 12:07am on September 17, 2017, she took her last breath, but before the absolute final moment, mom grimaced. Her face wrinkled up as if she were about to start crying. Her brow furrowed, the corners of her mouth frowned, and she writhed ever so slightly.
"GO, Mom!! There's too much pain for you here! Just go! WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!"

And then, after about 8 seconds, just as her favorite song was ending, Mom finally let go.
Her expression and body relaxed, and her lungs released the last breath of air she drew.

After several minutes of the most intense grieving I've ever done in my entire life, we called the hospice nurse, who then called the funeral home for us to come and pick her up. They didn't actually arrive until 4AM, so we had a few hours with her.

So, I just kept holding her hand.

I pressed the skin of her fingers on my face and forehead as much as I could before they came to take her because I knew it would be the last time I would ever feel her touch.
I thanked her for being the best mother anyone could ask for, and I apologized for being the son I'd been over the years.
I tried to be a good son during that time, but I can't help but feel like I came up short. Maybe that's just a natural feeling, I don't know. But although I know she had to go, and that she was suffering in life due to the 21-year battle with cancer that came to a close, I can't help but feel like losing her is a punishment. As if the universe was telling us that after all she'd done to help others in her life that we no longer deserve to have her.
It's a selfish feeling that I am ashamed to even admit having, but I know it's just a natural gut reaction to losing someone you love with all your heart. You take it personal. But you can't submit to that notion. When someone is suffering and in pain for as long as she was, you have to realize that they are no longer experiencing that suffering from that internal torture they spent so much time and energy fighting. She held on for us and her grandkids.

My sister was the biggest champ of the entire ordeal, as she her kids basically moved in with Mom in her apartment for the duration, and she was the one who was able to put in the most effort into making sure Mom was taken care of and comfortable. I'm crazy proud of her and my niece & nephew for taking their own initiative in helping care for their grandmother. In fact, when she and I were helping out together, my 13 year old niece was the one telling me how we had to do it. That kid is tough as nails. I helped when I could, but god knows I wish I'd been able to do more.

When Mom and my sister went to the doctor's office at the end of last month and received the news that hospice would be the next logical move, Mom told the doctor that she was just so tired. She was tired of fighting. She said she was ready and that she was at peace with everything. I think she had long been anticipating for a doctor to give permission to let go.

My sister told me that she thinks Mom was ready as far back as the previous cancer fight (the 3rd one) at the end of 2014,
But I personally think she was ready after Dad passed away. They'd been together nearly 45 years when suddenly he was gone without warning. It was obvious to me that she longed for him ever since that day.

My dad was the rule-enforcer of the family. Through him, I gained my assertiveness, my sense of humor, and he taught me what it means to be a damn good father.
But Mom... she was who gave me my capacity to love. She taught me a sense of compassion and what it means to be selfless and giving. She used to work diligently with Hearts For The Homeless, and donated to charities any time she could. Even in the act of dying, when visitors came to say their goodbyes, Mom - barely able to speak - would tell them, "You guys have so much to do. Don't waste your time here with me." Even when death was at her doorstep, she didn't have it in her to stop thinking about others.

She and Dad were both humanitarians. The lives of me, my sister, and my brother are testimonies to that, as we are all 3 adopted. My sister and I from birth, and my brother from the age of 14.
We had the parents everyone wanted, but I don't know that I truly understood or cherished that fact as much as I should've. I was such a spoiled little shit.

But she was so ready that she planned every bit of it. She chose her dress, her funeral service, who would be legally able to take care of her (she and my sister) so that no toes could be stepped on (the crazy comes out in some families when someone dies). As I mentioned, she even chose the music she wanted playing until she went. It was a CD by the pianist Mary Beth Carlson. And while "On Eagle's Wings" was the song I know she and Dad cherished, there's another track on that disc which I can't get out of my head now.

I remember seeing this movie in 1994 with Mom.

Throughout her life, Mom wasn't able to walk very well. Due to slightly malformed hips, she required a walker. Early in her life, she even wore braces on her legs, much like Forrest Gump. Her physical abilities were greatly diminished because of this, but she didn't let that stop her from doing what she felt was necessary for others.
When I got home after everything happened, I started going through her iPad. When I viewed her Notes app, I found a quote at the very top that she saved which I believe was one of her biggest inspirations.

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"If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in great ways."~ Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. ~

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I love you so much, Mom. It all went exactly how you wanted.I will miss you every day for the rest of my life.And I will pass on to my son the boundless love you gave to me.

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