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It wasn’t your usual family gathering.  My mom had summoned all six of her children home at Christmas so she could go from room to room, assigning each of us her possessions. 

She was dying of a terminal illness, already a year into her death march.  One down, three to go, it turned out. 

“I think this will look nice in your front hall,” she said to one of my older brothers, her hand resting on a chest of drawers.  And so it went, on and on.  A macabre ritual demanded by our well-organized matriarch, able to square off against Death in the realm of the mundane, but unable to face the broken and stressed out relationships looking right back at her.

“And I don’t want any fighting about any of this after I’m gone,” she said. 

This was my mom at her finest: in control of both her possessions and our fragile feelings.  We were her obedient children once more, as well as contestants in her game show of random kindness. 

I didn’t want her stuff, but then again, I did.  For that was the yardstick of her love: she gave to her favorites, her favorite things. I was a little girl, again, and I hated her for making me feel that way.  All I wanted was to hear her tell me how much she loved me.  But a family heirloom covered in dust, broken and tucked into the back of her closet would have to suffice.  It was the only love she knew how to give me. 

When all of her earthly possessions were dispensed, she told us there was one more thing.

“I want you all to know,” she began slowly. “That when I feel the end of my life is near, and while I’m still able, I’m going to take my own life.”

She sat looking at us, with her hands folded tightly and placed demurely off to the side of her lap.  Her spine was rigid and straight against the back of the chair; her chin was raised high, her legs crossed at the ankles.  She had orchestrated this moment and I could tell it was playing out exactly as planned.  She had declared her intentions, trying to extend a hand of control upon a disease already so out of control.  And now, she sat there, quietly, triumphantly, almost daring us to stop her or even object.  And then she went on, saying something about how much our family’s been through and wanting to spare herself from a death without dignity.  She said something else about it being her right.  I tried to protest, but you didn’t change my mom’s mind once it was made up.  No, she just bulldozed her way through yours.

After I returned to my own home in another state, I tried to go back to my daily routine but found myself startled every time the phone rang, anticipating the news that my mom was dead.  But as the weeks tumbled into months, it was my mom calling, telling me only that she was taking another trip, going back to school, planting her vegetable garden, repotting her geraniums, lunching with friends or simply calling to say “hi.”

“Just checking in,” she’d say whenever I’d answer, launching into all the happenings of her day, including another doctor’s visit, where she learned a new pain was caused by her advancing disease.  During many of these phone calls, she’d be somber and reflective, as she talked about her burgeoning personal faith, her hopefulness in seeing my children again, or how good the sun felt on her skin, that she said, “felt so cold all the time now.”

She seemed to be experiencing life with a new richness—thrilled with the simple and content in her acceptance of the inevitable.  As her horizons narrowed to only the view outside her bedroom window, there was no complaining for the opportunities lost, only thankfulness for the gift of another sunrise, and the sound of my voice.  The physical pain she had feared so much, was controlled with medication and never came close to the emotional agony she twisted in prior to her terminal diagnosis.

“Life is such a precious gift from God,” she told me.  “Don’t waste your life or any of the time that God gives to you.  Promise me that, okay?” 

We battled for so long, both of us feeling completely justified, and so full of pride and self-righteousness.  The deadline of her death launched her on a soul trip and in taking me along, we were able to call a truce, leaving me to mourn what could have been, not the torment of what was.

In the hospice, as she lay gasping for breath, holding my hand, looking right into my eyes, she said, “This is the sickest I’ve been isn’t it?” 

I held her hand and thanked her for being the best mom she knew how to be.  I thanked her for so many long talks and hugs and for not killing herself. 

She smiled and squeezed my hand back with all her might as she struggled to say, “I would’ve missed out on so much.”

Diana Keough is a Pulitzer- Prize nominated journalist, the mother of four sons and CEO, co-founder and editor-in-chief of ShareWIK.com. 
   


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