By Olivia Smith
Content warning: death and dying
Read part 1 of Olivia’s story: The Last Thing I Told My Mom Was a Lie (Part 1)
My sister met me in South Carolina and we drove with my 2-month-old puppy down to Florida, stopping for the night along the way. The time is still such a fog; it seemed so quick, and it felt like I was moving through a vat of honey all at once, almost as if life was happening to me and I wasn’t in my body.
I was terrified to get there and see how she looked. Before this round of cancer, she was always very fit and healthy, enjoying the gym. For much of her life, she was ripped. Over the past 11 months, she had shrunk over 3 inches from the tumors along her spine and compression fractures from the cancer. She was a bit hunched over and had lost a lot of weight. She refused to look at herself in the mirror, which broke my heart. She was beautiful, but had spent her 56 years on this Earth having a bad relationship with her body, including eating disorders. The changes the cancer made to her body exacerbated her low body image and this was a big struggle for her.
On my previous trip down, two weeks prior, her weight loss and new height were pretty evident. But it was still a shock to see her only two weeks later, so very frail and her complexion looking a grayish yellow. She came outside to see us, so excited we were there, and my stomach dropped seeing the changes, making it feel real. I tried to mask the shock from my face so she wouldn’t notice. As our mom, she was already more afraid of the effect her death would have on her daughters than her fear of death itself.
The next few days passed in a blur; the hospice care team finally came to do an intake on Friday. By then, my mom’s speech was a bit slurred. She also left with her husband Friday to complete her will. In her 11 months with this cancer, she had yet to do that until the last possible minute. I spent the days with her and my sister while she was awake, playing with my puppy while trying to keep his high energy from bothering my mom. We tried our best to make her laugh, keep her comfortable, and be there for her, but we had no clue how much longer she had left. I spent the nights sobbing on the floor in their bathroom by myself before I took a shower. I was so afraid of what was to come and how I could survive it. I tried to keep my pain and fear to myself, even though we were all experiencing it.
That Saturday, my sister and I were lying by my mom’s pool while she rested, and I decided to read the hospice pamphlet. The back of it had signs of coming death to look for, grouping it by how soon death was to be anticipated. One sign that meant death was coming very quickly was swelling and discoloration of the feet and ankles. Later that day, I noticed that her feet and ankles were swollen and discolored. I looked at my sister and asked if she’d read that pamphlet. “Yup,” she said. “Did you see Mom’s feet?” I asked. “Yup,” she said. And we just nodded and sighed, knowing it was coming soon.
This was all happening in August, but we were thinking ahead to Thanksgiving, as it was my mom’s favorite holiday. We had planned to go down that Thanksgiving to spend it with her in case it was her last, and to celebrate my sister’s master’s degree graduation, but we didn’t make it. At the suggestion of one of my best friends, we decided we would do Thanksgiving for my mom that Sunday and invited a few close people to celebrate with her. By the time Sunday came, my mom was barely leaving the hospice bed, except to try to use the restroom.
That morning, my mom’s husband told us that she told him she didn’t know how much time she had left, and we took it as a sign of goodbye. Later, my mom asked for my sister and me. She told us she loved us very much and was proud of us. We then knew she was definitely saying goodbye. I asked her if she was scared, hoping she would tell me no and that she was at peace and ready to go to set my mind at ease. But she wasn’t. She barely got the words out, “Yes, I’m scared,” and it broke my heart. I hugged her and tried to keep myself together. Just as my step sister and family friends were arriving, I left her room and cried while mashing potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner. I wasn’t ready for this.
My mom wasn’t well enough to sit and eat with us. Right before dinner, she had her first hospice nurse visit. The nurse told us she was at the five-day or less timeline, gave us some emergency medicine, and gave my mom an anxiety and pain pill. We sat down and tried to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with the door from my mom's room open right next to us. She started groaning while we ate, and one of us at a time would go in and sit with her.
Just before dessert, my sister called for me to come in. “It’s time,” she said. I stood by my mom, brushing her hair with my hand and telling her I loved her. I kissed her forehead while she groaned and cried when I felt her cool skin, knowing it really was coming. I had to get a chair to sit on because I was shaking. My step brother was supposed to be leaving for the airport but couldn’t because my mom was actively dying. We all sat around her for what felt like hours as she groaned and moaned, and her breathing slowed. We all lied to her, telling her it’s okay, she could let go, and we would be okay. My sister and I told her she raised us well and we would be okay without her, but even I didn’t believe myself. I didn’t want to say those lies; she taught me not to lie. “Honesty is the best policy,” she had said, but I had to lie to let her go, to get out of pain. I had watched my mom suffer for 11 months, and I couldn’t ask her to suffer for one more moment. It wasn’t okay, though. I didn’t believe I would be okay.
At one point, she groaned, “Help me.” I lost it and started sobbing; my big sister motioned to my step brother and pointed to me as if to say, “Take care of her.” He immediately stepped over and hugged me, and I spent the rest of the time she was dying sobbing into his stomach. What do you do when your dying mother says “Help me” and you can’t? That was the most painful part of all for me. I had never watched anyone die before; I wasn’t prepared. My only expectation was seeing “so-and-so died peacefully surrounded by family” in obituaries. But this was far from peaceful; she cried for help! Would she be okay? Would she find peace? As someone who doesn’t handle not having all of the answers well, this tore me apart. After a painful 11 months with cancer, I just needed to know she was at peace and out of pain at the end, and I didn’t know how to trust that after watching her painful death.
Her breathing continued to slow, and eventually her groaning became quieter and quieter. Her husband noticed she had wet herself and asked us to change her. We moved her body from the hospice bed to her bed. My sister and I helped take off her nightgown while my step sister cleaned the hospice bed and got new sheets. We moved her back, covering her dying, naked body with a blanket. Soon after that, her breathing stopped altogether. She was gone. We said goodbye, and we all left the room, calling our partners and trying to proce