Mom knew her Bible. She had studied it for years looking for instructions on how to live, and now, apparently, also on how to die. “It was so easy for Jacob; he just drew his feet up into the bed and breathed his last, and then he was gone.” She looked frustrated while shaking her head. “Tried that. Many times. Didn’t work.”
It’s a privilege to walk the last mile with someone. It’s an even greater privilege to walk through this last phase of life with a parent. And yet. There’s no roadmap. The weather is uncertain. The terrain changes constantly, often several times a day. These are the best and worst of times. And the most confusing.
She appears to be vanishing in the huge hospital bed. Compared to her tiny frame, everything else looks gigantic. Every time I hug her, I hold her gently, careful not to put any weight or apply any pressure.