MAMA

'The Love That Stayed After Her Hand Let Go'
Personal Story by Taylor Rau

​Is it easier to grieve someone when you lose them gradually, or if one day they’re just gone? I’ve experienced it both ways, and I still don’t have an answer. I don’t think there is one. Grief is such an overwhelming feeling that I think sometimes people want it to be over as soon as possible, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Or by simply avoiding it altogether. Which I can understand, but in my experience, it’s better to not shy away from it. Because if you do, you’ll miss out on the potential of having more wonderful memories with the person you love. They say no good thing comes easy, and in this context, I believe that to be true.

I didn’t have a normal upbringing. That was until my aunt and uncle adopted my little brother and me when I was ten years old. The woman who was my aunt chose to be my mother, and when she was told her cancer was back and had metastasized a few years ago, I felt devastated. She was told she had stage four metastatic breast cancer. Treatment came in the form of chemo pills daily in hopes it would slow, or even temporarily stop, the progression. That, along with her infusions, was really hard on her, though she tried not to show it. She didn’t want us kids to worry. But I witnessed her struggle for years. I saw the days where standing or walking took everything she had. She was stubborn about trying not to show it, and I was stubborn with insisting I be there for her. I got my stubbornness from her, I suppose.

I did my best to not let it show how much it hurt to see her in pain, because I didn’t want her to worry about me. I wanted to just help her and spend time with her. Because I knew, from my years of working in healthcare before my vision loss, that our time was limited.

She always said cancer was a lonely thing, because it seemed to push people away. Like it was too difficult for people to see it happen, so they stayed away. So I made sure I wasn’t going to go anywhere. I would be there with her till the end. And I was. I was there when she was admitted to the hospital over and over. I was there when she could no longer work or drive. I was there when it was time for hospice. I was there when she needed help walking and getting dressed. It was hard, but I don’t regret it, and I am so grateful I got to be there for her. She took care of me, and it was my turn to take care of her.

On the week that she passed, the last day she was conscious, she tried to smooth down my hair that was sticking up like it tends to do. I told her that I knew it was a mess, and she just smiled, put her hand on my face, and said, “It’s always been a mess.” She said it with so much love that I had to stop myself from breaking right then and there. But she still needed me to be strong for her, so I held it together. She could tell something was up and asked me why she felt weird and why there were so many people there. She knew she was in hospice, but the doctors gave us a timeline of months, and she wasn’t even in hospice for a month at that time. I told her the truth: that she was now entering the actively dying stage. Throughout all her years of treatments, I never lied to her. She always wanted it straight. She said okay and then asked if I’d be okay. Asked if we’d all be okay.

She passed away two days later, early on a Wednesday morning, with so many of us nearby. I could feel that it was her last night that Tuesday. I held her hand for hours and told her it was okay to let go. Told her that we’d be okay. Told her it was only goodbye for a little while until we saw each other again in heaven. She worried about that, too. She said, how could it be heaven without us there with her? I told her that I think time works differently in heaven. That by the end of her first day there, it would have been a lifetime on earth, and that we’d then be there with her. That seemed to bring her some peace. She asked a lot about death and what I saw from when I was working in healthcare. I assured her that it’s like falling asleep and promised it wouldn’t hurt. I don’t know how I knew it was soon, but I did. We’ve always been so in tune with one another. She wasn’t just my mother. She was my friend.

We had her comfortable at home, and I didn’t want to leave her side. It was a little before five in the morning when we all decided that we should try to get some sleep, at least for an hour before her next round of medication.

My little brother, Dylan, and I went to the backyard to stay in my parents’ camper, and within five minutes, we received a knock on the door. My uncle told us she was gone. Even in the end, she was stubborn. She waited for us kids to be out of the room to let go. My brother held my hand while we walked back inside. I knew it was coming, but it didn’t feel real till I went to her bedside and her hand was cold. My aunt Jan, who had been staying with my parents for months to help take care of her, wept with us. I felt like a piece of me had gone with her.

My biological mother died of the same type of cancer, so I didn’t just see her in that bed. I saw them both. In my early thirties, I have had to say goodbye to two mothers. I had to tell my dad she was gone. I never heard him sob the way he did, kneeling at her bedside, holding the hand of the woman he loved.

She said that there would be blessings from her death. That we just had to keep our hearts open to them. It has only been a little over a week since she passed, but I already see it. I saw it that day when we all came together at their house to have a cookout and bonfire. She would have loved that. My mom always said she didn’t want a funeral. She wanted a party. As I stood in that backyard full of her nine kids, their spouses, and her fifteen grandbabies, I understood what she meant. The blessing was all of us. We were all together because of her. So even though she is no longer with us here on earth, she will never truly be gone. She lives in all of us. She lives in my brothers and sisters. She lives in her grandchildren. Now I just need to learn how to live without her here with us.

I love you, Mama, and I miss you terribly, but this is only goodbye for a little while. Until then, I will feel you near when I see Skip-Bo cards, and when I hear Fleetwood Mac and George Strait. Most of all, I’ll think of you when I hear the laughter of my brothers and sisters and of your grandchildren. ∎