My Mom ...

Elizabeth (Betty) Turner August 3, 1935 - June 12, 2025

While we sat vigil and were witness to my mom's final struggle I wrote...

June 8, 2025 ... My Mom …

I never imagined it would be this hard.  It’s been 5 days bearing witness to my mom while her body is trying to die.  My brother, son, daughter and I have spent many hours sitting with her, talking to her, reminding her of how much she is loved; how we know she’s tired, and how we will be okay when she’s ready to untether from this earthly world.

I talk of all those gone before her, and how they are waiting for her, saving a seat just for her.  She is the eldest of the 7 siblings … all the others gone long before her.  George, Bob, Dick, Patsy, Dave, and baby brother James who died at just two weeks old. Plus the sister in laws, the friends, and of course her husband, Ernie; and 46 years ago – her oldest son Ernie.  I talk of him waiting and ready to see her again. 

My mom has been in the storm of dementia for over 5 years.  The first few years were manageable, the last 2+ years she has been in care.  Dementia is an interesting beast.  As I’ve watched my mom along with the many other dementia residents she has lived with over these past two years,  I’ve seen two things. Those with dementia who seem to have a quiet comfortable peace.  For these folks, I guess dementia is an okay state.  There are also those who struggle, fight, and battle all the way to find some control when they’ve lost all control.  Both can be incredibly difficult for family to witness.  My mom is the latter.  Dementia has never been anything but a struggle and fight for her.  Never trusting others, always fighting with and against the care providers … and us too at times.  Many times.  Even now in an extremely weak state, she will raise her hands to swat at the care staff.  No strength at all but still fighting.

So, I’ve spent two years wishing and praying for her to find peace and ease; to untether from this world and move onward with all those who love her and are waiting for her.  All with the deepest of love and gratitude for all she has been and given to me.  And yet …

Dementia is a trickster when it comes to end of life and the dying process.  In fact, in January we thought we were here. She had RSV, and was hanging by a thread. She survived it. And in true dementia fashion, these past days have been a roller coaster of ups, downs, and wtf’s?   But we’re finally here now.

As I sit with my mom, she breathes like a blowfish, fidgets with the bed sheets and her clothes, and speaks – though mostly inaudible and quiet.  She holds my hand.  When she’s awake enough, and I bring my face close to hers, she leans in, placing our foreheads together, her eyes glazed, and she whispers “love you”.  Or so I think and so want to believe. 

As I speak of her dead beloveds, and especially her son Ernie, she smiles some.  I let her know its time for her to go home, and that no matter what we will always know where to find her.  She has taught us how to be okay and support each other.

She has spent much of her life being afraid and uncertain.  I try to assure her there is nothing to be afraid of now.  All that surrounds her is love and safety.  The angels will guide her and protect her. 

I thank her for everything she has taught us about love and family.  For being an amazing grandma to my kids, and frankly to us too.  I acknowledge that I know she gave everything she possibly could, and her only intention was ever love.  I ask forgiveness for much, and although I don’t harbour any regret, I do wish.

I wish I had been more aware of her heart pain, her sorrow earlier.

I wish I had asked more questions about her life – her struggles and her joys.

I wish I could have been more compassionate.

I wish I had known more.

I wish we had more time.  Not this kind of time. Not dementia time, but time to have really talked and shared together; to better understand each other. 

I wish I hadn’t been too afraid to crack open our hearts together to truly understand this woman – my mom; and so she could have truly understood me.

And yet, right now … in these moments … it is so clear the only thing that matters is love. All the things we get so wrapped and twisted up in while we try to live life simply do not matter.  I think I know this, but in these moments … I recognize I still have lots to learn. 

So I sit with my mom.  Talk to her – whether she is responding or not.  I hold her hand, and occasionally she tightens her grip with mine.  My brother says, “I’m not sure if I’m here to hold her hand, or so she can hold mine.”  This hits me.  We think we’re there for her, but we’re there for ourselves even more so. 

She’s my mom. And although our life has been complicated, and sometimes frustrating as hell for both of us, we love each other. Care about each other … and we will miss each other.

I never thought this would be as hard as it is, and ask myself why?  

I’m 62, and I’m watching my mom do the hard work to leave her earthly body.  To die.  This is hard business, of course.  Yet, I also recognize its about so much more. 

Not just her mortality, but my own.  Everyone’s mortality.  The loss of most all of our elders, and so many friends, and young people too.  The unknown of how much of my own life is left to live.  The knowing that no matter how much time and love I soak up with my kids and my grandbabe … it will never be enough.  Not for me, and in the end, not for them either.  This is life, isn’t it?  Deeply rich with so much that truly matters – so much love; and yet so fleeting. Even when we know what matters most to us, how do we ensure we absolutely get enough of it all.  I don’t even think we can.

Let today be the day.  The day my dear mom untethers her sorrows, her pain, her suffering for nothing but love and god’s grace.  But for the grace of god, may she find the love and peace she’s always been longing for as she goes home.

And may we always know and feel her presence and be reminded of what a good mother is.  A good mother may not always be the way you want them to be, but she can still be a good mother.  A very good mother.

Thank you for all of it, mom.  Forgive me for all the times I could not hear or see you. 

Your love will carry us, influence us, and remind us of what matters most.  We will never forget and will always be able to find you.

So let go.  There is no longer any need to struggle, go to the light and the love you’ve always needed.  It’s right there, across the horizon.  Your people will walk you there, if you let them. We will find our way, and we will be okay. Your light will shine in the eyes of your grandchildren, and their children, and well beyond what any of us can see right now. 

This is your legacy.  A legacy of love.

I love you, mom.

_____

About the author:

Karen Hendrickson is an Elevation Coach, focused on helping others to rewrite their life story, befriend their mortality, and find the richness and magic that lives at the intersection of our lives where life and death meet. When we allow our authentic self permission to shine our life becomes full of MAGIC and GREATNESS.  Contact karenttjourney@gmail.com and start working with her today!