What stuck out was all the 8s.
8 days in hospice.
Dying on 8/8/18.
Standing hearing the nurse pronounce “time of death 6:38.”
Noting to myself 6:38 EST. 3:38 PST.
Knowing mom would have turned 78.
I was a few days away from turning 38.
It’s what happens in death and dying. You notice things. Your mind takes snapshots of specific moments. Sometimes it seems random.
Why do I know that if I put a cup of vinegar in the dishwasher and run a cycle it is a powerful cleaner? Oh yeah, it came up somehow in small talk with a hospice nurse. Certain things stick. Others don’t.
All the 8s meant that I saw the one year anniversary of my mom’s death coming at me as I looked at my calendar. Somehow it was more present and the actual date / time took on more meaning.
What do I want to do on 8/8 at 3:38 PST?
Do I want to be alone? Together with people?
My sister usually initiates the annual “Toast to Daddy” on the date of his death. I don’t remember why we started that. But it’s now an annual thing. It’s the thing that seemed to stick.
Things are different with each parent.
My father died within hours of being at hospice. That was 8 years ago. It was a wonderful, dignifying, caring thing. He waited until we had all arrived and said our goodbyes. We left to grab dinner. My sister stayed and had turned away from him organizing things in another part of his room. He seemed to wait for the moment when no one was watching.
We came back and we waited in the room for the caretakers to come retrieve dad’s body. And quickly our tears turned to laughter. It was right. It fit. Laughing and telling stories.
My mom held on in hospice for 8 days. Of course she would. Strong, tenacious, stubborn. I took an overnight flight hoping to be there and watched her hold on.
What do you do for 8 days in hospice?
My daily rhythm matched the hospice rhythm of vitals check-ins, bathing, comfort care medicine.
I got up with the morning shift change and put the cot away in the corner. I showered. I ate. I took walks at regular intervals.
My rhythm became being fully present and speaking words of love. And it became giving space and permission to go at any time.
I love you mom, I’m here, it’s okay to go. I’m going for a walk now mom, it’s okay to go. We are going to grab dinner now mom, it’s okay to go. You lived an amazing life mom and you are so strong, it’s okay to go.
The nurse taught me how to count mom’s breath. It gave me something more concrete than noticing the in and out. Mom’s breath was the most important sign and measure of life.
On 8/8/18 mom drew her last breath. I stood right next to her and watched. The nurse timed it to make sure. Time of death 6:38. Mom chose to go when my sister and I were there with her.
It’s one year later. It’s 8/8 and in a few hours it will be 3:38 PST.
I knew I wanted to be intentional about this day and honor mom. I wanted some kind of ritual. Something to make meaning. But what?
I want to be with a few people. People who were there for me and would just be with me.
It felt weird to ask and schedule it. But I did. And of course my friends are wonderful humans who said yes, we will be with you.
I love sharing meals with friends anytime and at significant milestones or anniversaries or occasions.
So I chose sushi – because good sushi is celebration food to me.
And for 3:38 I chose to be walking amongst flowers.
I always loved bringing my mom flowers. I would ask my dad if we could get some anytime we were out and I saw them. I would pick flowers I found while out exploring and bring them to her.
When mom died, hospice prepared her body and placed a single yellow flower in her hands.
They put a picture of a red rose above the doorway of anyone who has died so people passing by know to honor the people in that room.
We had waited to bury dad’s ashes until mom died so we could bury them together. I wondered what would make some meaning for all who came to the graveside.
So I ordered a bunch of fresh cut flowers. At the graveside each person could come and pick a flower and place it on the stone.
It seems right that one year later, flowers continue to be a part of my rhythm of remembering.
Rhythms in Death & Dying and all the times after are deep and profound and meaningful.
We don’t talk about them enough in our culture.
I wasn’t sure if or what I would say on this day. But this feels right. My mom taught us to not shy away from death. That we should be present and visit the dying and remember the ones we lost. If you have read this far, thank you. Sharing this helps me continue to experience healing and grace. And in a special way, it helps me practice one more thing that honors my mom.