May 9, 2008
Starting around 5:50 PM her breathing was scarce. Sitting next to her I would look at her chest to see if it was moving. It was only barely. Then, time stood still, totally still, at 6:00 PM. All I could hear is everyone saying I love you, Mome, or I love you Grandma. I was afraid, even though she had stopped, that she was somehow hoping, listening, that I would be OK, that I wouldn’t be hysterical or sobbing.
I leaned next to her face, my forehead touching hers, and said as calmly as I have ever spoken, “Buddy, I will see you in heaven.”
My mom is my buddy, my best friend, ever. Now, she was gone, to be with my dad. To shed herself of my empty promises about getting well, about living to age 100, to having her lungs replaced by new medical technology that was sure to come, to curing her cancer. To going to another bingo, going to the dairy bar, having a cookout, going for a ride, to sitting on the porch. I did lie, she did not get to do not even one of these things.
She has the gown that Amy put on her. She has clean hair because Amy cared about her.
That woman on that hospital bed is my mom, Catherine Jean Kidney. She is my mom, my mommie, my strength. She always will be.
No more pain, no more hearing her voice, seeing her smile, her blue eyes, no more worrying about us. Please Lord, let my mom know that we love her and trust that she will be happy in heaven with you.
Tell her often how much I love her.
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