After an extended period of physical decline, my Sweet Mother crossed over on February 13, 2008 at the age of 91.  I had been her caretaker for many years, but luckily the last year of her life, my sisters stepped in and together as a team we loved her, we supported her and we cared for her as she wound up her long life. 

My Mom and I were very, very close.  In many ways, we were more like a couple than a traditional Mom and Daughter.  I moved back in with her years ago, to make sure she stuck around when my Dad died suddenly.  Eventually I built a home next door to hers-the one I’d grown up in, so she could stay in her own home and be as independent as possible for as long as possible. 

As she aged I took on more and more of the responsibility for her life, I took her everywhere, I managed her health care, I was the support for her continued independent life.  I did her grocery shopping, her laundry, took out her trash, handled her heavy chores . . .   I did everything I could to let her continue to live on her own.  I was her best friend, and she was mine. 

In the course of all of it, we developed a deep and loving friendship that surpassed our Mother/Daughter roles entirely.  In some ways they reversed, with me becoming more of the Mom figure, and her more the dependent.  Yet she was always the strong Mom influence in my life, supportive, loving and encouraging. 

Food and all the aspects of it, shopping, cooking, eating had been a central part of her whole life.  But I watched as over the years it became less and less important to her until finally, even eating became a chore she dreaded.  Like so many elderly people, over the last few years she kept getting smaller, losing weight and shrinking.  I often joked with her that she didn’t have to worry about dying, she was just going to be like ”The Incredible Shrinking Woman”, just keep getting smaller and smaller until one day . . . “blip” . . . she’d just disappear to somewhere more beautiful.  No effort, no pain, just smaller and smaller until one day gone . . .   She lived that experience as closely as physical life provides.  Her little physical body slowly and simply wore out.  Her sweet heart and all her organs lasted much, much longer than anyone expected they possibly could, until one morning, the day before Valentine’s Day,  she simply and quietly let it go.

It was a beautiful experience watching her transition over the course of a year or so, from elderly but functioning woman to bedridden, and sincerely ready to cross on to what is next.  And I know she took that long, slow path for me, for my sisters and our family.  To give us time to adjust to the idea of life without her.  Also to give my sisters time, like I had had for years, to say everything they needed to say to her.  To give us all time to lavish love on her the way she always lavished it on us.

I am selfishly grateful that she took that long, slow path, when it was obvious all along she could have left at any time, skipping so much apparent discomfort, pain and frustration.  It was also obvious to me that she was sticking around because she wanted to continue to be a brilliant Mom, she wanted to pass along one last, continuing lesson in strength, love and family.  

She didn’t really complain, no matter what was going on or what indelicacies they were doing to her.  Yet in her quiet strength, she also stood up for herself when she felt it was needed.  And through it all, every day, every breath, she kept smiling, zinging wisecracks and making light of it all.  In doing so she left us all a legacy of strength, perseverance, humor and love.

An unexpected and huge blessing she left for me, is one that is hard to put into words.  She always told me “I don’t want you to cry when I go, I want you to celebrate.  I’m not leaving you, I’m going to be with your Father.  I don’t want a funeral, I just want you to bury my ashes with your Dad, and then go have a party and celebrate my life!  When you think of me, I want you to smile!” 

She was thinking of her kids to the very end.  In spite of someone being with her almost constantly for months and months, she chose to cross during one of the few moments when she was alone.  I’m sure she didn’t want her last moment, when she slipped quietly from this side to the next to be a difficult memory for one of her girls.  She wanted it all to be as easy as possible for us.

When I first heard she had crossed, in spite of knowing it was coming, all I felt for the first few hours was numbness, a kind of shock, like I never really believed it would happen.  But as soon as that shock/numbness wore off, I was enveloped in the most amazing feeling of wellbeing I’ve ever experienced. 

I knew immediately I was feeling what she was feeling on the other side.  At least as much of her non-physical joy as I am physically capable of experiencing.  Every time I thought of her I got this overpowering wave of total love and absolute, bewildering joy.  The kind of joy that is bigger than life itself.  The kind of joy that comes from seeing my Father again after a 22 year separation, and being more in love with him than ever.  The joy of instantly going from 91 year old, bedridden, sick woman, to feeling young, healthy, vibrant, and unlimited, in the spiritual arms of the man she loves.

OH!  The party we have when you croak!  And the laughter that abounds, As you say, again and again, All that GRIEF over NOTHING!  All that GUILT over NOTHING!  All that WORRY over NOTHING!  And then what do you do?  You say, Ready to go again!  Ready to go again!  Ready to go Again!   You don't say, "ah, didn't like that!!!  Didn't like that one bit!"  From your place of connection, you see it all clearly, you know it, you ARE it, you see!!!  Excerpted from an Abraham-Hicks (Abraham-hicks.com) workshop in San Francisco, CA on February 24, 2007A

It was overwhelming and incredibly beautiful to me.  My best friend, my Mom . . . had left this physical existence and all I could feel was incredible joy . . . her joy.  While the idea of going through the rest of my life without her physical presence was tender to me, mostly I felt as if we had said everything we needed to say a hundred times or more, and we’d done everything we needed to do.  She had lived until her body had become a prison to her and I was experiencing her release of it into the overwhelming freedom of pure positive energy.  She shared that with me so I’d know she was still with me and that she was more than just OK.  She shared it the same way we had shared most everything else, and it has been the biggest blessing of my life.

I’m sure some of the people around me, were curious as to why I wasn’t falling apart, she’d been the center of my life, and me of hers for years.  But I simply couldn’t be anything but happy for her.  In fact, the idea of grieving seemed ludicrous to me, grieving for her when she was experiencing such joy, it made no sense.  All I could feel was she had lived a full, happy, loving and long life and now was on to her next big adventure. 

And grieving for myself seemed completely selfish, the truth was I simply wouldn’t have wanted her to experience even one more second of physical, not the way it was in the end for her.  I had an overwhelming sense of the beauty of the circle of life, I wasn’t worried about myself or where my life was going.  I had spent that time doing what I loved with who I loved.  I created that part of my life and I deeply understood my future is mine to create too.  

Sensitivity forced me to tone my joy down for my family’s sake.  As we watched them inter her ashes in the same grave with my Father’s coffin and throughout the next few weeks, I had to suppress the natural smile on my face, and I was careful not to show much of the unbridled joy I was feeling in my heart.  While they all knew she was in a better place, each was still caught up in their own individual feelings of loss and grief, and I had to respect that for them.

I had to keep my joy in check as I was offered condolences at the memorial luncheon we had for her at her favorite restaurant.  Everyone knew our relationship, and what a big part of my life she was, and they all were concerned about the gap she left with her passing.  They were afraid I’d take it hardest.  I’m sure some were concerned I’d fall apart, even had been expecting it for years.  But after 6 years of Abraham, (which honestly none of them know about me) and many talks with my Mom, I was more than prepared.  I know about pure positive energy and I understood the joy, the almost glee I was feeling, it was her sharing her experience of the release of physical and the complete bliss of returning to pure love.

I simply smiled through all of the sad smiles the way she always showed me, and I told anyone who asked that she lived a beautiful, long, full and very loving life and she had simply finished it to go be with my Dad . . . and that as far as I could see, there was absolutely nothing sad about that.

That enveloping feeling of joy has stayed with me too, I never experienced any grief at her crossing, no stages, no denial or bargaining, no anger, none of it.  All I’ve ever felt is love and a feeling of closing of one door and me gently turning to face the opening of new ones.  A delightful expectation as to what this next chapters of my life will hold. 

Oh don’t get me wrong, I miss her physical presence with all my heart, in a million different ways.  And she crosses my mind all the time, we don’t realize how much our lives are intertwined until someone is gone from physical.  Yet I feel so close to her that after a second or two of missing her, the feeling is always transformed into one of deep gratitude . . . for her . . . and for my continuing connection to her. 

For what she taught me, for what we shared and for how those things give me the strength, perseverance, humor and love to stand tall and embrace my amazing, unfolding future.

Thank you Mom, I love you.

Tigerlily