I Held My Mom’s Hand

Personal Essay & Courtesy Photo by Katie Meier

I held my mom’s hand when she died.

My large hand encompassed her smaller boney one as we laid on her bed. Her other hand wrapped around a small white plastic cup containing three pills, a cocktail of barbiturates and morphine.

The three pills would end her life in four short hours.

The warm July sun streamed down through the French doors and into the tightly packed room, filled with family members and doctors all there to support my mom. There were balloons and flowers. It looked almost like a celebration, except for the tears streaming down the faces of those inside.

It has many names, death with dignity, aid in dying and physician-assisted death. We were lucky to live in California, one of the few states where it’s legal.

“I’m ready,” she said bravely. Her shaking hand raised the cup to her lips and swallowed the pills quickly.

The moment we had been fighting against for eight months had finally arrived, ever since her diagnosis of stage IV small cell lung cancer in November 2017.

I found out through a phone call. Lying in bed, two states away, my phone vibrated quietly and when I answered, I could immediately tell something was wrong.

“Katie, are you busy? We need to talk,” Dad’s voice was soothing over the static background noise of a badly connected cellphone call.

“Your mom has cancer.”

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Over and over again, the thought repeated in my mind.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

My mom was fine, she had to be fine.

Except she wasn’t.

A pit the size of the Grand Canyon opened in my stomach and I could barely hear anything over the sound of my own sobs.

I wanted so badly to be in California, wrapped in Mom’s arms, listening to her whisper everything was going to be fine in my ear.

It was painful to go home the first time, to see her in a hospital bed. I wanted to be able to fix everything and felt helpless when I couldn’t.

As the cancer got worse, the trips home became harder and harder.

My first trip home, she had lost her graying brown hair.

My second trip home, she had lost weight, reduced to skin and bones.

My third trip home, she had lost her ability to walk, confined to a wheelchair or bed.

Mom never lost her spirit though, the one thing the cancer could not take.

She laughed loudly and without fear. She still smiled her infectious smile, the one that would brighten any room.

She was fierce, strong and a sight to see, looking cancer in the eye and flipping it the bird.

Sure, she was sick, but she wasn’t going to let it stop her from living.

For eight months there was nothing we couldn’t do.

We saw the Nutcracker, hung out with Mickey at Disneyland and went to the Rose Bowl cheering on her alma mater, Penn State — so loudly we lost our voices.

The little things became the most important. We played Scrabble in the park, ate ice cream by the beach, sang ABBA so loud we were sure the neighbors could hear and laughed until our stomachs hurt in between the aisles of Target.

Everyday Mom fought for more time, one more chance to make one more memory.

Eventually, Mom couldn’t fight anymore. The cancer had spread to her lymph nodes, brain and stomach and was no longer responding to treatments. It was her time to go and she was ready. She had made her decision.

For Mom it was an obvious choice but for me it was much harder to deal with, maybe it was because we were having so much fun or maybe because I was in denial.

The days leading up to July 13 were filled with emotional turmoil.

Why would she want to leave? Why would she want to die?

It wasn’t until the night before, twisting and turning in bed unable to sleep that I was finally able to wrap my mind around it.

Mom wasn’t choosing to leave me, it wasn’t even about me in the first place. It was about taking charge of her life one last time, an act of dignity, a show of defiance in the face of a disease that had taken any promise of a future from her.

By the time the sun started to rise, I had reached an uneasy acceptance.

“I love you, Mom.” The words were a whisper out of my mouth. My body shook but Mom was sturdy beside me.

“I love you too,” she replied. Her words hung heavy in the air around us.

I held her hand tightly, unwilling to let go.

I held her hand to say goodbye, after eight arduous months of battling cancer.

I held her hand to show her I would be there for her, to support her and love her even if it meant her leaving.

I held her hand to make her more comfortable in the face of a scary and unfathomable situation.

But, I also held her hand because even if she was ready, I wasn’t.

I wasn’t ready to let go.

I wasn’t ready for a life without her.

Eight months later, I am still not ready.

I still find myself reaching for my phone to call her whenever something great happens. I go through old photos and cry over them, I listen to old voicemails just to hear her say “I love you” one more time. I would do anything to see her smile.

There are good days and there are bad days.

But every day gets a little easier.

I held my mom’s hand when she died.

I am so glad I did.