My mother, née Mary Allen Miller in Rock Hill, South Carolina, in February 1930, passed away at 7:10 p.m. on Feb. 3, 2018 here in Morehead City, N.C., where she had lived since 1936. She was 15 days shy of her 88th birthday. She was at home when she passed, and my sister and I, along with our closest cousin and one of our closest friends, were here in MA's apartment with her when she drew her last breath on Earth. She had had a string of visitors over the course of the day.
Actually, we "young people" were preparing to eat dinner, and we were probably making a good amount of noise. My sister was the one who noticed that MA's labored breathing had suddenly changed. MA had been breathing that way for at least 24 hours and seemed to be unconscious. MA's labored breathing simply stopped. It was very peaceful. I'll never know if she was aware of the fact that I had arrived to see her off, but I hope she was. If so, it took her about 24 hours to let go and leave ce bas monde behind after I got here Friday evening. My sister and I both had been telling her the evening and night before that she should let go if she could. We were both here so MA didn't need to wait any more.
When she stopped breathing yesterday, for me it was a relief. The suffering was over. My grief is just starting. The medical consensus was that she would not recover from the cancer that had metastasized into her lungs and bones after a mammogram in 2015 revealed that she had breast cancer. I happened to be here and with her at the doctor's office when that diagnosis was made. We were both in shock that day.
Now the cancer had spread to her bones and lungs, and she had been experiencing severe pain sporadically since at least last October, the last time I was here in North Carolina. In January, the pain became constant, and it seems she knew well before the doctors or her children and friends knew that her time had come. MA's death mask reminded me of carved stone statues I often see in the old churches of the Loire Valley — tortured but serene à la fois.
So there's the news. What else can I say? Just that I loved her and will miss her more than words can express.
Now the cancer had spread to her bones and lungs, and she had been experiencing severe pain sporadically since at least last October, the last time I was here in North Carolina. In January, the pain became constant, and it seems she knew well before the doctors or her children and friends knew that her time had come. MA's death mask reminded me of carved stone statues I often see in the old churches of the Loire Valley — tortured but serene à la fois.
So there's the news. What else can I say? Just that I loved her and will miss her more than words can express.
