The Departure

My eyes open to another cold December day.  The morning is like any other, but my life is on the edge of a transformation.  I lie still, my breath shallow, as thoughts slowly fill my mind, reminding me that my daughter is fighting for her life in a hospital bed fifteen miles away.  In my soul, I know she is dying.  Still grief stricken over my husbands demise, this new loss is staggering.  Illness, suffering and death have become an unfortunate way of life for me in the last three years.  I hate cancer, the insidious murderer who was stealing so much from me.  I struggle to shake off the lethargic effects of the nightly sleeping pill I take to find oblivion every night and force myself to put my feet on the floor and get up.

I feel helpless and frustrated that as her mother, I can not heal her.  I could not save my husband and now, I can not save my daughter.  In the bottom of my mind, anger simmers.  I did not think it often, but on this day, I am mad that life has been cruel and unfair to me.  Why am I being forced to watch the ones I love most, suffer and die? 

I arrive at the hospital an hour later, breathlessly rushing into the ICU.  I pause for a moment, taking note that there are approximately twenty individuals standing in her small room.  Pain hits my stomach as I gaze at her face.  Her breathing is labored and her belly jerks with each intake of oxygen.  Despite her body’s continued fight to live, with each gasp, she slips further away from life.  Her color is a pasty grey, her skin stretched tight over her cheeks.  I had seen the same look on my husband’s face twenty one months before.  I burst out in tears, heartbroken that her death was imminent.  All hope was gone that she might be spared and I sobbed into her neck, gently kissing her cheek while stroking her dry matted hair away from her face.

Ignoring all the people in the room, I focused solely on her beloved face.   

“I love you, my sweet baby girl.” I cried.  “Dean!” I shouted “You’d better be waiting in heaven to help her!”

“I love you so much!  You are not supposed to leave before me.  I am so sorry you have to go.”

“I will miss you so much.  I will help take care of your babies.  Please don’t worry.  Go in peace.”

Muffled sniffles and the whirring of the machines surrounding her bed were the only sounds in the room.  The nurse entered through the sliding glass door and removed the oxygen mask from her face. She continued to take off all the unnecessary monitors on her finger and chest.  Slowly, her body’s ability to take in air became longer in-between each exhale. Right before her last two breathes, her eyes flew open.  I gasped and looked at her husband.

“Chad, her eyes are open!” I said.  She looked straight up, to the left at her father, then back up towards the ceiling.  She hadn’t opened them for several days, and for a brief moment I thought she was going to wake up.  But instead, I surmised that she was looking at heaven. Then she was gone, her body still. 

The contrast from my brief hope to complete loss was devastating and I openly sobbed in pain.  I went up and kissed her cheek and stroked her forehead one last time.

“Thank you for being my daughter.  I was blessed to have you in my life.”

I know that my anguished grief is just beginning, because all hope is gone.  She is departed and I will miss her until the day I die.  A piece of my soul left with her.  I will never be the same.

My only consolation, she passed away surrounded by those who loved her most, friends and family who came together in unity.   The love for her was so thick that it was almost tangible.  She died the way she had in a dream, long before her demise.   A prophecy from God. 

She is finally cancer free.