THE CYCLE OF LIFE

We Say Goodbye in Silence — The Words Have All Been Said

Did you hear my warm hand?

Just curious, Mom.

Did you hear me?

I lay my hand on you, ever so gently, as a reminder of my love.

The slight rise and fall of your chest and the slowed rhythmic tempo of your breath, reassure me of your earthly presence—my brain races.

I need you to know you aren’t alone.

In case.

Did you hear my warm hand upon you, saying goodbye?

Three times now, I’ve watched your mind and body and soul compete for your place. Is it here, or is it there?

Is Daddy waiting in the wings to escort you? Your visions of his visits are increasing which offers comfort.

For you and me.

It’s not your time yet, though. You stand in life’s doorway of indecision, fighting against all odds and rebounding with a vengeance.

We laugh — it’s what we do in our family, credit our good German stock.

Rebound Sue is back.

Ready to tackle another tomorrow.

The first time you faded away, I froze in disbelief. We were midstream in a conversation. The story ending was stolen as you simply shut down, fading away in slow motion.

Your eyes lost focus — your lids succumbed to an unseen weight. Furrowed brows went slack. I perched on the side of your bed, acutely aware of my inadequacy.

Silence echoed in an eerie yet beautiful stillness.

Your smile relaxed, leaving the remnants of a grin across your lips.

I prayed.

I prayed.

Did you hear my warm hand upon you, saying goodbye?

Preparedness guided me through the second time. The immediate question when you fall, but sit there and wait for someone to find you, is if you hit your head.

It’s always your head, isn’t it?

So vulnerable with the eruptions of tiny brain bleeds that pack a mighty punch and debilitating cognitive mayhem.

Your non-reaction when I appeared from nowhere convinced me this was it.

Did you hear my warm hand upon you, saying goodbye?

You resurfaced, bound and determined, to overcome your body’s betrayal.

Later, you begged me not to order the bedazzled bubble wrap helmet I threatened you with if you continued to pretend you could walk without assistance.

We had fun with that one, didn’t we?

You promised to ask for help. Yet, your confusion and pride jump in to prevent you from fulfilling your promise.

My heart aches for you.

I love you, but you know that. Don’t worry about life details, hold firm to the warmth of my love. Trust me in your darkest nights.

You taught me well; I am not selfish in my wishes. My only thoughts are for your peace.

When you decide you’re ready, I pray that it’s as quiet as I witnessed — those times I swore we had exhausted our tomorrows.

It was that third time, right there in the hospital, that Doctors rushed in, nurses flew to your aid, and equipment was wheeled into position. I stood back. Watched.

In silence.

Tearless.

You clawed your way back. The doctors performed their magic and allowed me access to your bedside. Our eyes connected. Love flowed through my fingers as I smoothed your hair.

In silence.

We’ve said all the words we needed to share.

Did you hear my warm hand upon you, saying goodbye?

Three times now, I held my breath — and braced myself.

No longer do tears of angst stream down my face. And, each time, I feel secure leaving you until tomorrow.

Until the day we run out of tomorrows.

We buttoned up any loose edges during the year, though there weren’t many. You’ve made an impact, left your mark, done right by the world and by me.

I treasure how we reminisced, laughed, and cried until nothing was left unsaid.

I am no longer afraid. The beauty and grace in your approach give me hope for that same calm acceptance when your time is right.

And mine.

Did you hear my warm hand upon you, saying goodbye?

We say goodbye in silence.

Today and tomorrow, until there are no more.

Thankful the words have all been said.

To My Medium Family:

The few stories I’ve written to document my Mom’s journey were done with kid gloves.

As an avid reader and my biggest fan, I crafted them carefully anticipating her eyes on them.

My respect for her, in the event she stumbled into another tale, drove my presentations.

Thank you for your patience with me as a writer and reader. I am grateful for your kind words of support.

Some days I engage with vigor, and others I am at a loss. My apologies to those I neglected.

At this point, my fears no longer exist. My Mom is well cared for, safe, and struggling with orientation. She has retired as a reader.

I imagine she remains my biggest fan, though.