Last breath

It was just a week ago, Sunday, August 27th.

Mother had slept peacefully throughout the night, not awakening nor even moving since the prior afternoon. The last response I saw from her was when Patty, one of the hospice nurses, stopped by Saturday afternoon to examine her -- actually to assess how I was doing -- and had asked Mom several questions. She wasn't really alert but acknowledged Patty.

I spent the night on the floor in the bedroom with Mom, dozing then awakening every hour or so to check that she was still breathing. It was regular and peaceful. Her eyes were half open, which is how she had been sleeping for the past couple of weeks.

When Stephanie, the caregiver, arrived Sunday morning, I went out for my walk downtown along the river, which had become my morning respite while in Reno. I had a list of items to pick up at the store and thought about doing so after my walk, but decided to first check in at home.

Tomi walked across the street to see Mother around 10:30, earlier than her normal Sunday afternoon visits. Tomi was aware that my mom's condition had deteriorated and had e-mailed me that she would be over during the morning.

As we were chatting, Tomi commenting about the change in my mom in just a week, I noticed the rhythm of Mom's breathing change. The duration was shorter, her teeth were closing during part of the cycle, and I could hear some slight congestion. I gave Mom a dose of lorazepam, noticing that the set of her jaw made it difficult to insert the syringe. I noted the dosage and time on the log: 10:55 am. Within a couple of minutes, her breathing seemed to relax.

"Gary, I think your mom has stopped breathing."

Hearing Tomi's words, I immediately looked at Mom and moved to her side. I thought I saw a short breath, then a stillness, then another short breath. Her eyes had opened more fully, as though she might be awakening. But the breathing had stopped.


That same morning, Mom's church held their 14th anniversary celebration. Each summer her church marked the passage of another year by holding a Sunday service at Idewild Park. Several had hoped that Mom might be able to attend this year, since she was such an integral member of the church community. But as the week progressed, Mom became much too weak to go anywhere. By Friday she couldn't get out of bed to get to the bathroom; Debbie, one of the hospice nurses, installed a catheter.

As the church's anniversary service ended, 32 balloons were released in memory of each member who had died since the church was formed. There was no balloon for Mom, but her spirit must have joined them as they made their skyward ascent.