Two days before my mother passed away from ovarian cancer, she lay in her bed, downstairs in the living room in our home. Our home was two stories, small, but comfortable. For many months, a corner of the living room became her bedroom, since she could no longer walk up and down the stairs.
On this particular day, my mother was consumed by pain, her belly swollen with ascites despite past hospital drainings. I had watched her, fed her, bathed her, as her condition worsened in the space of 13 months. She gave me power of attorney for her healthcare and estate. I recall sitting by her in the hospital a month before as they asked her if she wanted to be resuscitated. I could tell she would have preferred to be released from the pain, but she waved her hand at me and said, "Whatever she wants." I firmly said, "Yes, whatever it takes." The doctors reminded her and me that her body was so frail that her ribs would likely break from the compressions, but she closed her eyes, shook her head side to side, and waved at me. Again, I wanted her alive at all costs. At all costs.
My mom grimaced in pain on this night, praying softly but audibly, while I sat kneeling by her bed, hand resting on her leg... holding on. I heard her say the words, "Why, Father?" and, without wanting to put words in her mouth, something like, "Why so much pain?" I jumped at her words, and I said words that have shamed me for 20 years. "Still? Still, Mommy?" She knew what I meant. She turned from her pain for a moment, turning from questioning to protecting my salvation. "Shhh... shh..." she shushed me gently, lifted her thin, fragile hand to pat my own on her leg, and she became silent.
The start of the end had begun some time ago, but now it had sped up. Within an hour, the ambulance was called, and I was sitting by her side, finally knowing the dread of what it was like for all those before me, and those who would come after, of riding in the ambulance with your loved one. There was nothing to be done, just give more morphine.
Into the night and next morning, they prepared to move her to a hospice facility. She insisted on it, rather than returning home. She refused to go home. She was always thinking of us, to reduce our pain, reduce our trauma, to save our bodies and our souls. Whatever it took. Knowing my mom, she thought of both practical and emotional reasons, even at the end. She didn't want a death in the house to hamper the sale of our home after her passing (since it goes on the seller's disclosure records), and she did not want us to experience the trauma of her passing and not knowing what to do while we were alone.
So, she was taken to the hospice location. We followed.
She was in the passing phase when I returned the following morning. I was later than I desired, and I put blame on someone else for the delay. The regret I felt from that delay made me resolve to take complete responsibility for my own decisions going forward. They were late and I chose to wait. (I remind you now, others can give you advice—they can ask and plead—but the choice you make is your own. Be sure you can accept that.)
One of my older sisters was already there. She said she was glad that we hadn't arrived yet because my mom was able to say some last words to her. To administer to the care of us all. To take care of us. To take care of me.
My sister witnessed the peace overcome her, the brightest smile my mom ever had, then go silent. Physically, she was still there when I arrived, but she did not speak or move again, and passed away a few hours later.
I didn't pray for more than 2 years after. I could not bear to say the words God, Lord, Jesus, or anything religious or spiritual. When I heard the sirens of an ambulance or fire truck, I could only wish them luck, unlike my past practice of a short prayer for the person and family involved and the first responders.
Although the story of my reconciliation with God evolved in many ways, and blossomed into a testimony of faith, for the next 20 years I considered myself the Satan, the tempter in Jesus' 40 days in the wilderness. I've never told this story to anyone, not my family, for shame of having become the voice of temptation against God.
But here it is—my confession.
I don't know why I never thought of it. Perhaps I would have felt release and self-forgiveness earlier, but the story of Job is perhaps the truer parallel and offers powerful words of sustenance through suffering.
Recently, my nephew was watching the cartoon version of the story of Job. I realized—it is my story.
I was not Job—my mother was—till the end.
I was Job's wife—telling him to curse God.
But he did not.
My story eventually became one of reconciliation, but still remains one of ignorance. To have faith in the mysteries of God, till I stand face to face with Him, and ask Him then.
"For I know that my redeemer liveth,
and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth:
And though after my skin worms destroy this body,
yet in my flesh shall I see God:
Whom I shall see for myself,
and mine eyes shall behold, and not another;
though my reins be consumed within me."Job 19:25–27 (King James Version)
My adaptation, in my own words:
For I know that my Redeemer lives,
and that He shall stand upon the earth in the last days.And though in death my flesh decays and is destroyed,
yet in my flesh I shall see God.Whom I shall see for myself,
and my own eyes shall behold—not another.Though my heart be consumed within me.
Adapted from Job 19:25–27 (KJV).
Along with these powerful words of Job, there is a beautiful song I listen to during periods of questioning the pain in the world, "Face to Face" by Natalie Grant.
God bless you always.