This was harder than you might think. A few years ago, National Public Radio ran a series called “This I Believe.” Listeners were to submit 500-word essays sharing beliefs they held to be unequivocally true—anything from “I believe in ghosts” to “I believe in democracy.” The only rule was to include the phrase, “This I believe.”
The response was overwhelming. I submitted one myself. It was about my daughter’s choice to join her high school cross-country team because students were required to have an athletic activity, and she was not an athlete. Cross Country was a no-fail sport. You competed only with yourself, a situation a lot like life, I imagine.
So, my submission was about learning to cheer for everyone—always. We are all attempting to at least place in the same event: a life of consequence lived with kindness. This I believe.
The topic of what I believe has been on my mind since last week’s class in “Near Death Experiences,” in which we learned about the concept of the Life Review. People who have been resuscitated after being declared clinically dead report remarkably similar experiences across cultures.
I’m not talking about encountering a religious figure or a tunnel of light. I am talking about being greeted by a love of inexpressible depth. I’m talking about the near- universal first words of those revived being, “Why did you bring me back?” And another important commonality: no one dies alone. This I believe.
In my mother’s journals, some of which I read after she died, I found a sketch she’d drawn 50 years ago titled “Image of Death.” A prone stick figure reached up toward three stick figures hovering overhead——their arms extended in invitation. Dotted lines between the figures below and those above indicated an energy flowing between them. A rudimentary sun shone in the sky, one tree, flowers, and grass.
All my life, I had tried to include my mother in every meaningful moment—every holiday, birthday, vacation, graduation, and school program- often at the expense of my own family. Because she had been alone since the age of 42, I was determined being alone should not mean feeling alone, but death is an outlier.
It was the week after Christmas; I was working and had a house full of family, guests, meals to make, and a kitchen to clean. I was at my desk trying to finish a manuscript when my mother’s assisted living facility called to say it was time to bring in hospice. Having just visited with Mom up, dressed, and talking days earlier, I was taken by surprise. I thought this meant she might die within 3 months, and I was overwhelmed at the very word. Hospice. I suddenly couldn’t speak.
But Mom didn’t die within three months. She died within 3 days.
On what would be her last day, I spent the afternoon in her room, just the two of us. Her bed had been lowered nearly to the floor, so I sat on the carpet next to her. She was unconscious, the room dimly lit, with soft classical music playing. I picked up a book of her published poetry titled A Fine Thin Thread. Since she once wrote, “My poetry is me, inside out,” I thought I’d read to her.
As I read, I realized I was recalling in exquisite imagery, every relationship, hope, loss, longing, and love she had ever had. I was, in essence, reading a life review.
That’s another commonality of near-death experiences. You are able to review your life with a compassionate understanding and lack of judgment we are incapable of here.
After a few hours, I became anxious about the holiday company I’d left sitting at home. My youngest was visiting with a new boyfriend. I’d need to help get dinner started. I’d need not be a big drag. So, I texted home, asked if I should stop at the grocery store for coffee and more eggs, then told Mom, “I’ll see you tomorrow” because, in my inexperience, I fully believed I would.
At the threshold, I suddenly stopped and turned back, intuitively unwilling to part quite so casually. I went back in, kissed her, and told her something much different. Something about how there would never be a day in my life I didn’t want her to stay and about what I imagined was waiting for her if she chose to go. Hospice was scheduled to come explain their program to us the following week.
Just before midnight, the night nurse called to say, ‘Come as fast as you can! Your mother is actively dying.” I was the only local daughter, the only one whose name and number they had used countless times over the last decade for every emergency, but inexplicably, when every second counted, they had not called me first. They had called my sister–the only daughter of three who lives out of state. The only one who could not possibly get there in time, which delayed telling me.
I’d just gotten in bed—so I threw on jeans and a sweater, and we drove back as fast as possible. Christmas lights and stoplights lit the darkness. Within 15 minutes, we were at the facility, but it was nearly midnight, and the doors were locked. We beat on them, rang the bell, and called on cell phones as time dragged on until finally, a lackadaisical security guard came strolling through the lobby and let us in.
I raced up to the second floor—on the mission of a lifetime—to not let my mother die alone—only to be greeted by a staff member ten feet outside her door, framed by fake tinsel and a string of lights. “She’s gone,” she said. “Your mother died a few minutes ago.” I was stunned. She didn’t say ‘oops’ or ‘my bad,’ but might as well have.
Had a trio of angels arrived? I’d spent my entire life making sure Mom wasn’t alone for important occasions—once even leaving a New Year’s Eve party with my new boyfriend unkissed at midnight to race the clock home—and here I’d missed the biggest transition to something new any of us ever encounter.
I went into the quiet room I’d left only hours earlier. My mother was lying on the bed just as I’d left her. But she wasn’t there.
I have since told myself she knew we were coming and chose to die with the same independence with which she had lived. But it’s hard to forgive myself for being so clueless. For not understanding the significance of what was happening that afternoon. For honoring the wrong priorities.
I anticipate having a hard time explaining this in my own life review, so I’m telling you.
But sometimes, I think the indifferent security guard was part of a plan. And the nurse who waited too long and then called the out-of-state daughter was part of a plan. And maybe three angels hovering overhead heard my footsteps on the stairs and whispered, the love that’s approaching can’t compare to the love that is waiting. And with joyous anticipation, she just let go.
A belief is not, by definition, a truth. It’s just a thought you’ve had for a long time. So, although I can’t be sure, and this theory cannot be verified, this I choose to believe.
Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.
Joe Feldman says
Hi Laura,
Thank you for sharing such a personal and loving experience.
Once again, you have touched an emotional nerve.
Just one of many I try protect, to avoid reliving the accompanying sad, but loving memories..
I have experienced the loss of a Mother and Father, who I could not be with, to hold their hand, stroke their hair and tell them how much I loved them…before they passed.
Our parents who gave us life, protected us, provided and watched over us and loved us unconditionally.
….would not want us to be upset and carry with us, the indelible memory of their last dying breath.
I believe, as you do, that my parents did not die alone.
I know they were surrounded by loved ones, who took them by the hand and warmly and peacefully
embraced and welcomed them… when it was time to go… but always to remain “close by” to us.
Thank you
Joe
Laura J Oliver says
Thanks for sharing this, Joe. I’m betting those you love are close enough to have heard your thoughts. I hope so anyway.
Suzi Messick says
How beautifully written! Thank you!
Laura J Oliver says
Thank you Suzi. I often feel that I don’t have time to make stories as beautiful as I would like to because of other work and deadlines. Your comment is greatly appreciated!
Linda Houchens says
Thanks for this insightful heartfelt article. It touched me as I recalled having had a similar experience with my own mother. She had just been transitioned to a Hospice room at the hospital and I had been with her all day. As soon as I got home they called me to come back. By the time I got there she had passed away. I laid my head on her chest and she was still warm. It was so painful not to have there when she took her last breath. It still haunts me.
Laura J Oliver says
What an incredibly similar experience Linda. Write a new ending to what happened and feel the difference in the energy. The story you make up is just as possible as the one that haunts you. Just a paragraph. Mother had basked in your love all day. She needed you to be gone in order to leave you. You didn’t miss her leaving, you allowed her leaving and it was time. she loves you as much right this second, as she always has. She didn’t say good bye then, but she’s saying thank you now.
Stacy Basham says
I started crying when I read this simply because I am one of those that have been revived. Last year I died 3 times and was revived. There was peace during that time I was “dead” but I was alone and scared at the same time but also at peace. Ultimately I chose to come back because I needed to. I had unfinished business here on earth. I hadn’t fulfill d Gods purpose for me, it sounds like your mother did. Please know she was not alone, she was surrounded by move which is why she was able to choose.
God bless you and your family
Laura J Oliver says
Thank you, Stacy. And I’m sure I’m one of many who are glad you’re still here!
Michael Pullen says
Your loving gift to your mother was given, received, and accepted. When you stopped in the doorway and returned to her bedside, you gave her the gift she already knew she had. That she had birthed a loving and strong daughter who would carry the kindness and the love she had given you on to others in the world. No greater gift can be given.
Laura J Oliver says
Thank you, Michael.
Jeff Staley says
Moving and powerful, Laura. What people choose to believe can lead them to peace or anguish. Anchoring beliefs in provable facts does a lot to avoid unjustifiably experiencing peace or anguish. This I believe.
Laura J Oliver says
Thanks for weighing in, Jeff. And thanks for reading. A responsive reader is a gift. This I believe. 🙂
Nancy Prendergast says
What a lovely piece on the death of your beloved mother.
No matter what the preparation is, death is always a surprise. Having sat vigil with my mother-in-law for 10 days as she lay unconscious in a hospital bed, it was shocking that she chose to die just after we all left for the evening. The hospice nurse told us that this was a common situation,that the dying choose to slip away when no one is with them.
Your mother didn’t die alone. You accompanied her in all the hours leading up to the trio of angels appearing. Amen.
Laura J Oliver says
Amen indeed. Thanks so much, Nancy.
Gilda Osorio Tuttlebee says
Thank you for this moving piece. My two sisters and I were at my mother’s side when she passed away in her bedroom. All day we knew the end was near and she did die that evening, with us there. Several tines during the afternoon she made sudden and somewhat fitful attempts to sit up, her arms and hands outstretched as if wanting to touch something or join whatever or whomever she was seeing. We took it to mean she could see her many deceased siblings, parents or God. This I believe.
I also want to mention something she did a split second before exhaling her last breath. And it literally took our breaths away because it indicated that she knew full well the end was upon her. In a last second scramble, she struggled, and managed, to arrange her arms across her chest as was the customary position for the dead in the South American country where she was born, lived and died.
Laura Oliver says
What a remarkable story, Gilda! The familiar reaching for things unseen and the truly personal and powerful desire your mother exhibited to be ready to go. Thank you for sharing this.
Marguerite Welch says
Thank you. I really needed that this morning.
Laura J Oliver says
To be able to give a reader something is what makes writing a calling. This I believe. Thanks Marguerite.