Hold Tight And Let Go

In the last days of my mom’s life she lay in bed, unconscious, her chest heaving in perfect rhythm. She reminded me of a mountain, steady in the wind. I held her hand, played her favorite music, and slept next to her on a pull-out chair. I remember thinking that maybe I could shrink her and put her in my pocket and take her with me everywhere for the rest of my life. I wanted to keep her forever, even if it was just like that: a tiny mom mountain, steady in the wind.

But you cannot keep a person who is dying. On the fourth day my mom’s chest stopped heaving and she was gone. Her body was there but she herself was not. I still can’t write about it without crying. 

My mom loved her flowers.

I helped take care of my mom for about six months before she died. She had a rare and aggressive form of ALS that slowly paralyzed her until she was unable to move or speak. Her mind remained sharp while her body shut down around her. It’s difficult to imagine a more horrifying illness. 

As my mom’s body froze into place, my own body became an extension of hers. I lifted her, moved her, listened to her, fed her, bathed her, took her to the bathroom, dressed her–just like she had for me when I was her baby.

Over weeks and then months my mom’s being opened into its rawest form, and mine did too. I could hear her from a hundred feet outside the house. I understood what she wanted with a single glance. A friend later wrote about watching me move my mom: “…the way you spoke to her and looked in her eyes had such a tender intimacy that I almost felt was not mine to see.” My mom was on the edge of life and death, and I was there with her. 

My mom became acutely aware that she loved being healthy and alive. And a huge community of her friends, family, and caregivers became acutely aware that we loved my mom. We were able to experience that and express it while she was here on earth. We held tight to my mom and she held tight to us.

When someone is dying, attachment is held in the same space as loss. Life is held in the same space as death. Love is held in the same space as fear. My mom grieved the loss of her life in screams, sobs, and soul-splitting howls. She also laughed freely–her face relaxed and open–and delighted in moments big and small. She was surrounded by streams of visitors, including many friends who came to see her every week for many months. The house was an opera of everything all at once.

I lived in this tent in my parents’ backyard for about six months while I took care of my mom.

My mom died six weeks ago, on October 12. In her last days I wanted to keep her forever but I also understood that she needed to go.

I still feel sad every day, and that’s okay. Sadness is part of happiness. I’m happy to be a person in this beautiful world, and I’m sad that I lost my mom at the same time.

Loss requires us to let go. Letting go doesn’t mean you forget someone. It doesn’t mean they didn’t matter to you, didn’t affect you, or weren’t important. To me, letting go is a recognition that something has changed. My mom is no longer here in the way she used to be. Her molecules are merging with earth, water, wind, and fire. Her soul is on an extraordinary journey beyond my understanding. My old relationship with my mom has ended and a new one is beginning. 

My relationship with my mom continues as a relationship with the gift that is life. With time that goes on in all directions. With the understanding that we are and will always be recycled into new forms, forever.

I held tight to my mom and now I let go. And that’s okay. It’s what we’re here for.