The very best last goodbye

I walked into the apartment having absolutely no idea what I was going to find or what my role would be. There was clear disconnect among the family members. Each was trying to navigate her rapid decline, feeling unheard and unsupported by the people closest to them. It was emotional, complicated, and heartbreaking to witness.

I went upstairs to her room and knew immediately that she had very little time left. When I turned to look at the family, they were all staring at me with hope in their eyes, and I knew the conversation ahead would be difficult.

We gathered in the small living room downstairs. The room was unbearably hot, and I was wearing a mask, gown, gloves, and booties. I felt uncomfortable and claustrophobic, wishing desperately that I could peel away the layers and be more present for these beautiful people who were counting on me for answers and support.

I gently told them that I did not believe she had much time left, hours, possibly days, but likely hours. They were not on the same page. Each was processing the situation differently, and as emotions intensified, voices grew sharper and tears fell harder.

I put on my momma bear hat and reminded them that what she needed most right now was for them to support one another. I explained that no two people experience death the same way, and that they had to find a way to respect their differences and listen to one another. This moment was not about them; it was about her. I worried I was being a little harsh, but I didn’t want them to lose any of the precious time they had left together.

I encouraged each of them to spend time with her privately, to say the things that needed to be said and to say goodbye. I shared something I often tell families: assume this is the last day and make it the very best last day. Say what needs to be said. Leave no room for regret.

I told them that, as a mother, one of her greatest concerns would likely be whether her children would take care of one another after she was gone. I suggested they tell her they would. That despite how much they would miss her, she did not need to worry about them.

In the same breath, I acknowledged the truth, that they would not be okay, at least not for a very long time. This would be incredibly hard. But sometimes those we love need permission to rest, and they need reassurance that the people they leave behind will find their way forward.

Several grandchildren, ranging in age from two to twelve, shared a close bond with her. The question I struggled with most was: “Do we tell them the truth, or do we keep it from them that she is dying?”

As both a mother and grandmother, I answered from my heart. I suggested they tell the truth. Be honest that her time was short and allow each child to decide whether they wanted to sit with her, visit with her, or stay away.

Taking that choice away from them could become something they carried forever. If their bond was strong, they deserved the opportunity to say, “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” and “goodbye.”

I suggested the six-year-old draw her a picture or read her a story. More than anything, I emphasized the importance of giving them the chance to make that decision for themselves.

Before I left, we reviewed medications and other ways to keep her comfortable. I reminded them to call with any questions or concerns.

Knowing they probably wouldn’t, I called about an hour later.

Hearing her moaning in the background, I suggested they give the medications we had discussed. An hour after that, I called again. The medications had not been effective, so I suggested another dose. Twenty minutes later, I called once more, and she was finally comfortable.

I could hear her son’s voice relax.

He was able to comfort her and quiet her moans, and that was huge. I told him so. I wanted him to know that he had brought her peace. In many ways, I think it brought him peace as well. He needed to know, deep in his heart, that he had eased her suffering and done everything he could for her.

About two hours later, her son called to tell me she had stopped breathing and asked if I could come.

I arrived roughly thirty minutes later, walking into the same apartment I had left only hours before. Yet everything felt different.

The family was calm. They were comforting one another and speaking with kindness. They had found their way back to each other.

I went upstairs and confirmed that she had taken her last breaths.

She looked peaceful.

She looked beautiful.

I turned toward the family and nodded. Their eyes filled with tears, and I felt my own do the same.

We talked about bathing her and changing her clothes. I suggested flowers in her hands and her favorite music playing softly in the background. They planned to do it all together later that evening.

As we sat downstairs, they told me that after I left, they had reached out to every grandchild and told them the truth.

Each one chose to say goodbye.

Every family member had a private moment at her bedside. Her six-year-old grandchild drew her a picture and read her a story. Her children promised they would take care of one another.

And when all of that was done, she took a few final breaths and passed peacefully with them by her side.

It was the very best last goodbye.

xo

Gabby

This was written in 2020 during the height of Covid.