I Held Her Hand

Mom died in a bare room, across the hall from the nursing home dining room, and away from the other residents.  There was a bed, a wardrobe, a nightstand, and a chair.

After years of  caregiving we were nearing the end. The past few months had been filled with frustration, fear and anger.  After so much sadness, confusion, pain and helplessness, she was still.  

She held on longer than expected and I spent three days and nights in that room with her, flattening the chair into a bed and rolling it next to her when I needed to sleep.  I held her hand.  I told her I was sorry.  I told her it was OK. Of course it wasn’t.  

There were some hard moments in that room.  Although she was unconscious the majority of the time, there were times when it seemed she could hear us or when she seemed to be responding.  There were a couple of times when she seemed to be suffering and there was the moment when we knew it was time to start the morphine.

It was a time of transition for both of us.  She was in the process of leaving and I was in the process of staying.  Time stood still.  For just a bit we sat at the intersection of life and death. There was nothing else happening in either of our worlds. I held her hand.