That's how long ago my mom died. I think about her all the time. I try to imagine she is in heaven, but I don't really believe that. She is just ashes in the ground, except for the handful that the funeral director gave to me and my sister so we could each spread some ashes in a special place for mom. I have this little, gold, cardboard box with a small part of her in it. I know exactly where it's going. So many people prayed for mom. I wonder if they think that God didn't answer their prayers. I wonder how they can have hope that there is a God when He didn't give this wonderful woman her miracle. Maybe they thought the miracle was that she was surrounded by people who loved her, and that she passed peacefully at the end. The end was peaceful. If there could be a perfect death, she had it. From the time she turned to me, looked me in the eye, and said, "I'm done," she was surrounded with love. Once the morphine kicked in, she didn't open her eyes, except when the nurses moved her or turned her over. Her closest friend said the rosary. I don't know what that was supposed to do, but I'm sure it gave them and my mom comfort. Her closest friends stayed with us in hospice. People who knew her stopped by to visit. Special friends and family took a few private minutes with her to say their goodbyes. They say the hearing is the last to go, and that when a patient is on morphine, they are still aware of what is around them by sound. So we talked to her. We had a pizza party in her room, so if what they say is true, then she would have enjoyed having us surrounding her and laughing together. She would have felt the love. I was worried that mom wouldn't hold on long enough for my sister to get there, because she had to fly in. She made it. They say that a dying person may wait for a particular person before they let go. I don't know if it's true or not, but I wanted my sister to be there at the end because our mom would have wanted that. Later, the friends all left me and my sister for the night. She and I chatted in the dark and laughed like sisters do. Then we dozed off. A little while later, my sister woke me up, saying that mom's breathing sounded different. We each got on one side of her and I talked to her and told her it was okay for her to go when she was ready, and that we would be fine. Then she opened her eyes. She wasn't focusing on anything, but we tried to get in her line of vision. I kept talking to her, reassuring her. Then her eyes suddenly closed and her breathing slowed... and then stopped. They say that sometimes a dying person will see a light. Maybe she saw her "light" when she opened her eyes, and chose her time to go when she closed them. It was 12:30 a.m. The room was dark and quiet. It was just the three of us. It was perfect.
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