A Good Death?

Yesterday morning, at 11:19, my mother's body ceased its biochemical magic, and the person she was changed from a corporal reality to wide-scattered memories and a spirit.

A little over three months ago, on the Monday following a big 80th birthday celebration packed with friends, relatives and neighbors, she had been diagnosed with incurable cancer. Since then, her treatment focused on comfort and pain relief, and her days were filled with people caring for her and visiting her. Her stout Polish spirit held out longer than most of us expected, and our goodbyes were serious but not overly sad, and time's winged chariot moved at a humane pace to accommodate conversations.

The last time I sat with her, we discussed her faith. She was a devout Catholic - fiercely loyal to the Church, but ready to criticize it and its representatives when she disagreed. Pity the priest who got on her bad side - she may have been part of his flock, but she was not a typical sheep.

I asked her how she felt about the afterlife. She saw herself as departing on a journey soon, without knowing exactly what it would be like. It was like knowing that she was going to be handed tickets to a bizarre trip after going to sleep soon. She was ready to go, though not in a hurry to depart.

No grandstanding final words or dramatic flourishes - she fell asleep over the weekend and never woke up. Her body struggled for breath in her final hours, but her face remained calm. My sisters were at her side, and she could not have been in more compassionate hands at her departure.

Of course I'm saddened, but I have trouble imagining a better way to die. 3 months of preparation and goodbyes, a sufficient but not interminable time to calmly face the future.

Others in my world have suffered other deaths recently, shocking, brutal and far too young. Those are horrible deaths, and my heart feels bruised as I think of them. My mother was blessed with a journey she awaited calmly. If we must be mortal, I cannot imagine a better way to see a life end.