By Steve C
I was the last person to be with my mom before she passed. Two days before, we got “the talk” — the one where doctors say it’s time to prepare. Family and friends dropped everything, came from all over, and gathered in her hospice room.
Work was canceled, plans were rescheduled, and we all hunkered down. We talked about what songs to play at her wake. My mom didn’t want a sad funeral; she wanted a vibrant celebration. She lived her life through music, and we needed the right tone for her send-off.
I found myself writing her obituary, debating with family over who should be named and the exact wording — we wanted it to be just right, to honor as many people as possible. People came and went; as the social one, I coordinated visitors and managed everyone’s schedules.
After two exhausting nights, most of the family went home to rest. I didn’t want my mom to be alone, so I slept in a chair next to her. When she made it through another night, I stepped out to shower, but in the ten minutes I was gone, she passed.
A nurse was waiting for me. She told me that my mom was gone. She said that sometimes people wait until they’re alone before they leave us. It felt like wisdom wrapped in sadness – or at least it sounded like comfort to a tired and wet 34-year-old who missed his mom’s final moments.
It was then that the work kicked into overdrive. I immediately notified family and began coordinating with my sister and stepdad for the service. Each of us had our role—mine was music, my sister handled the photos, and my stepdad booked the restaurant.
We threw ourselves into making it the “celebration of life” my mom always wanted. Speeches were given about her warmth, her strength, her love, and her kindness. We shook so many hands and received endless hugs. We did our best to let everyone honor her in a way that she wanted.
Then, came the quiet.
The damned quiet.
It was in that silence, after the rush of logistics and planning, that grief hit me like a wave.
For me, it started when I heard a song on the radio a few days later—one of her favorites—and I cried. I had a dream where she appeared, and I woke up in tears. Even a sad scene on TV would set me off. I was like a sprinkler with a match held under it – ready to let loose at a moment’s notice.
As caregivers, it’s easy to get lost in the work—appointments, medications, meals, sleep schedules. You focus so much on what needs to be done that you forget the emotions behind it all. You forget the relationship with the person you’re caring for.
In reflection, I realized that I was focused on the “doing” that I lost track of the importance of just “being.” Thus, I became adrift in the sea of grief at a time I least expected.
My message to caregivers is this: it’s okay to pause. It’s okay to let go of the checklist for a moment and just exist in the relationship with your loved one. Allow yourself to experience those moments of connection, even if it means letting the tasks go by the wayside for a bit.
Find normalcy where you can—whether it’s laughing over a shared memory, watching a favorite TV show together, or just sitting quietly. Those are the moments to be cherished – both by the patient and by you. When the silence comes, when the work is over, and when the memories remain – you won’t regret the time you spent just existing together.