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My Mum Died
#1
So we've been caring for my mum who has been sick for several years and then last August were told that she had just days to live because she was in acute kidney failure - just 3% kidney function.

She hung on til the 30th April @ 20.36.  We had been at the hospice with her for days holding and loving her til the staff told us we should go home and get some rest, as they could see we were on our knees with exhaustion.

I got home, grabbed some food and was heading for bed when the phone rang and I was told to get back there asap.
She died ten minutes before I got there.  
All I had wanted all along was to be with her when she left, holding her hand so she knew she wasn't alone, but it wasn't to be and i'm heartbroken.

We haven't had the funeral yet - in the throes of organising it and to be honest I don't know which day of the week it is at the moment.  I feel as if I have everything under control and then Wham! the grief comes along and side swipes me, knocks me over, brings me to my knees, literally.

All those years caring and now emptiness and I feel so resentful that the one wish I had, to be with her when she left was denied me.

The amazing staff at the hospice made a big point of telling us that people often wait til their loved ones have left before passing, so i'm hoping that was the case, but right now i'm mentally stuck in that hospice room  with her watching her poor ravaged, bleeding body wasting away and I can't get out of there.

People try to be kind, searching for comforting words to say, but there are no words that can alleviate this desperate, crushing sorrow.

Just want you back Mum, can't bear the thought of never seeing your sweet smile, or hear your dear voice thanking us for everything we did for you.  

I'm one lucky girl having such a special, loving mother, that I know, but this loss is unbearable..............
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#2
I have no adequate words. It's so unfair that one wish was denied. But start saying goodbye, bid farewell somehow. It will be a journey in itself, the saying goodbye.
Nothing exists entirely alone.  Everything is always in relation to everything else.

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#3
Please accept my deepest condolences .

 
Welcome back to this site.
 
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#4
I am so very sorry for your loss. Keeping you in my thoughts and I am here to talk if you ever feel like it. (((HUGS)))
"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."
— Dr. Seuss
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#5
I am so sorry for you loss.
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#6
I am so sorry for your loss, Jently. I recently lost my mum too - 2 days before my birthday in March. Big hugs, my heart goes out to you.

Like you, I also was not able to make it to my mum's bedside before she passed. She was living in a care facility as she had dementia - she had contracted pneumonia which was seemingly getting better, then she suddenly took a turn for the worse. We were told to come late on a Saturday evening, so myself and my older brother left first thing Sunday morning (we both live 6+ hours away). My younger brother lives closer to her, so was able to be by her bedside sooner. With an hour still to go in the drive, my brother texted us to come ASAP - when we arrived, we were met at the door by nurses who told us we had our mum had passed 5 minutes previously. 

The same thing happened with my father. He lingered for over a week, and the three of us had sat vigil at his bedside during that time. My older brother and I left for a few minutes to get some food and my younger brother stayed. We were just leaving to come back, and got a text saying 'Come quick!' - by the time we got back, a 10-minute drive, he was gone. 

I was devastated as the one thing I had wanted was to be with my parents when they passed on. The loss of my father was especially hard as I felt that I had let him down by not being there at the last moment for him. I completely understand how you feel. 

But take heart in the fact that you were there for your mum in her last days - that's what's important. You filled her final moments with love and care and that's all we can really do. I have read that grief is like ocean waves...they come in and almost knock you over with their power, then slowly recede, and come back in again. There is a very beautiful article written about grief, written by an old man who answered a stranger's question online - "My friend just died. I don't know what to do." I am attaching it here as it helped me. I hope it brings you some comfort too. Much love to you, and if you ever want to talk, please message me. Keep Smiling, as my dear 'ol Dad would say. Smile 

“Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”
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#7
There are no words that can take away your pain, just know that we are here for you and you are in our thoughts and prayers.
We could be heroes, me and you...
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#8
So very sorry got your loss, I’m sure she knew how loved she was.
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#9
So many thanks for the caring supportive words from each of you lovely people.

Tough times indeed, wading through a seemingly overwhelming emotional storm and it's still new, but maybe that's why it's so hard. Because she was so sick for so long it was as if it was never going to happen and now it has, it's like falling into a void.

The funeral inches closer, eulogy prepared, but am I ? I know she's gone and it's just an empty shell in that coffin, but it's still the body that bore me, comforted and loved me and when that's gone the reality will be inescapable.

No more mum. This is life now and it's harder than I envisaged, just not coping very well at all.
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#10
So sorry!!!!!!!
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