I sat with her during the last week of her life. Knowing she was there, but not really there. Telling her she could stay and fight or leave on her next journey. I don’t know if she heard me, I don’t know if I was convincing. I sat with her all day and slept on the floor in her room at night. After six days, I left to spend the night in my own home. That’s when she chose to leave us…when she knew I wasn’t there, when I wouldn’t see.

I felt horribly guilty for leaving her. I felt if I had been there, she might have stayed a while longer. I have since realized it wasn’t my decision to make. It was a decision between her and God.

My mom was never a fighter and she suffered mightily for over 10 years. She decided what was right for her, and I respect that. I too have been looking for that ‘sign’ that she’s still around. I haven’t gotten it yet, and I go from being sad to angry to accepting about that. Ultimately, that’s her decision as well.

I take comfort in knowing she’s with her mother (who she lost in 1954) and her dad — along with gobs of other loved ones.

There is a pretty widely known poem used by hospice, I read it to my mom in those last days. I find it comforts me still when the sadness comes creeping:

*****
Gone from My Site (A Ship Leaves…)
by Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: “There, she is gone!”

“Gone where?”

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: “There, she is gone!” there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: “Here she comes!”

And that is dying.

******

God bless you, Katie, and your family. God bless you, Henry – Sail on.

I did visit the blog of your friend who’s son is struggling with the car-accident induced brain injury. My daughter had the same injury, Difuse axonal shearing. She is one of the success stories and I sent him a message letting him know it is possible.

I only know of Henry through your writing. My sister sent me your Attachment Parenting book shortly after my first son was born in 2001. I didn’t realize I actually knew who you were (I believe you were the first person I ever Googled). I was a classmate of your brother’s way back when at Cascade. Although it’s been many years since I’ve seen him, I know he would never want to cause you more pain: I simply believe his words to be true. It is quite the small world, isn’t it?

I sincerely wish I could offer some words of wisdom, or some words to help you deal with the immense pain you are feeling. There are simply no words for the bereaved, save for “I am so sorry for your loss.”

There is no schedule for grieving, no set time for ever “getting over it” – if there is such a thing. I know that letting go of one child as you prepare for the arrival of another is no small feat. You are an amazing woman and I can only hope to be half the person you are. My heart is with you at this time: one of terrible loss that no one should ever have to go through and also one of an incredible journey with a new life to be welcomed to this world. I wish you and your family peace and love.