She was the most important person in my life.
My mom.
The woman whose hands had held mine
Before I understood the meaning of holding on,
Whose voice was woven into the fabric of my childhood,
Whose presence made the world
Feel a little less frightening.
Then came the words no family is ever prepared to hear.
Metastatic colon cancer.
It had already traveled through her body,
Quietly taking pieces of the woman
Who once seemed to know no exhaustion.
She had worked, cared for us, carried the weight
Of a family without ever seeming to tire.
But cancer does not ask permission.
And in those days, when prevention and screening
Were not what they are today,
The diagnosis struck us like a wrecking ball
Through a house we believed would always stand.
There are moments in life
When there is nothing left to do
But wait.
Her final days were spent in a hospital room
That became our world.
Family members took turns
So she would never be alone.
A hand resting on hers.
A whispered word.
A prayer beneath a breath.
The soft rhythm of machines marking time
When time had become something
We could no longer control.
Pain medication flowed through the IV,
Carrying her deeper into sleep.
She did not see the tears we shed
Beside her.
Maybe that was a blessing.
Maybe mercy sometimes comes quietly, in sleep,
In not knowing how much the people you love
Are breaking inside.
The doctors had told us the end was near.
So, we waited beside her,
Each of us holding our own grief,
Trying to make peace with something
We could not change.
Then, around midnight, the phone rang.
My older sister.
Her voice carried the words we had feared
And somehow been preparing for.
My mom had peacefully passed
Into the arms of the Lord.
The waiting was over.
We were left with an empty room in our hearts.
A silence where her voice had been,
And memories that suddenly seemed
More precious than ever.
I believe the heavens received her
With open arms.
Maybe the angels gathered around the woman
Who had spent her life giving everything
She had to the people she loved.
And maybe she was made whole again,
Free from the pain, free from the tiredness the cancer had brought,
Restored to the woman we remembered.
I like to believe she was welcomed home.
And I like to believe that someday,
When my own journey ends,
She will be there,
Not as a memory, not as a photograph,
Not as a voice I strain to remember,
But as my mom, reaching out her hand,
As she did when I was young.
Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.
