Saying The Last Good-bye

My mother's mental illness kept us apart in a way that no mother and daughter should be apart.

She had good days, and many bad days. During my childhood, there were many dark and terrifying days. Over the years, our relationship suffered. Actually, it almost perished.

When she was hospitalized a little over a month ago, she had good moments and some bad ones. I did too.

But over the next four weeks, from her hospital stay, to a nursing home, back to the hospital, and finally into hospice care, we were both transformed.

It started, I guess, when I began to pray that she would have a happy death. I sat in her room, and prayed that God would send the people she loved the most -- her parents, her grandparents, her Aunt Julia, her Uncle George -- to her to bring her home.

She had been in the hospice center for nearly a week when her doctor told me that she had about a day left. I was sitting by myself when I realized that I had to let her know that I forgave her everything, everything that had happened over the last 62 years.

By this time, she was sleeping a lot. It was past her time for speaking, even drinking water because her esophagus was no longer working.

I stood by her side and said, "Mom, it's Mary Ann. I love you. I forgive you everything. I want your trip to heaven to be wonderful. I love you. And I forgive you everything."

And then she groaned. A long groan.

Medical experts tell us that the hearing is the last sense to go, and I believe my mother heard everything I said. I hope she did.

The next morning, her face had what I would call a death mask. She was pale, her mouth was wide open, and she was breathing hard.

I told the nurse that my mother was in discomfort, and that she needed medication.

As I returned to her room and stood by her bed, her arms were raised a little. I grabbed both of her hands, and as I did, her breathing slowed and she seemed to calm down.

I held her hands, and I began to talk to her. I told her over and over and over "Don't be afraid," remembering the words of Blessed John Paul II. I said, "Be courageous. You can do this."

And then I said the "Hail Mary" as I held her hands.

As I finished, it occurred to me that I would never see my mother's beautiful brown eyes again. As the word "again" slipped through my mind, she opened her eyes. At first, she didn't focus them. And then she focused them right on me.

I looked at her and said, "You were the best mom. You did the best you could."

And then she died.

I kissed her lovely white hair, and that was it. I knew her spirit had left her body, and that her mind was healed.

Rest in peace, Mom.

Morella Murray Hughes

March 23, 1919

October 9, 2013