It began with a phone call. My mom was crying, saying she needed to get to the doctor immediately. I left work, drove to her house, and found her unable to pinpoint exactly what was wrong—just that something wasn’t right. That day marked the beginning of my unexpected journey as a caregiver.
At first, it was just bloodwork and confusion. The tests came back with elevated white blood cell counts, but no clear answers. My sister, a physical therapist, started taking point on the medical side. Eventually, after months of “nothing’s wrong” and my mom continuing to look and feel awful, we found out she had a large cancerous tumor in her abdomen. It was wrapped around multiple organs—her spleen, kidney, pancreas, and part of her diaphragm.
Despite Mom previously stating she never wanted extraordinary measures, when faced with this 12-hour surgery, she gave doctors permission to “use any means necessary.” The surgery itself was successful, but afterward, every skilled nursing facility in our city either had no beds or looked at her chart and said, “We don’t have staff that can do what she needs.”
That’s when my wife and I looked at each other and said, “We’ll become the skilled care.”
Mom moved into our house, and my wife—meticulous by nature—created a complete care system. She made charts tracking medications, physical therapy appointments, water intake, and bowel movements. We essentially became a two-person hospital unit.
It was an honor to care for her, but it was also incredibly hard, especially when her will to live seemed so fragile.
“When the doctor says you need to do your exercises,” I remember telling her, “you need to do them.”
“I don’t need to do them,” she’d reply.
We were caught in that impossible space all caregivers know—do we push the person we love, or do we just love them where they are? How do we balance what they need medically with what they want emotionally? I did my best to love her in the way I know how in those moments.
The one thing that changed everything was her goal: she wanted to go to California to see her sister, who was dying of cancer. That became her why. That was what got her up. What helped her try.
She did it. After weeks with us, she was well enough to go home—and then we sent her to California. She stayed for two months, soaking up sun, resting in the garden, and being with her sisters. It was like seeing a new version of her—walking off the plane with her suitcase and her little dog Sugar, moving better than she had in a year.
But that purpose? It was used up. She told me in the car, “I feel guilty. My sister’s fighting to live, and I’m just… done.”
A day later, she stopped responding to calls. I went over to her house—afraid of what I might find. I found her on the floor, incoherent. I thought she’d had a stroke. We called 911. It turned out her blood sugar had dropped dangerously low. Then came a whirlwind: the hospital stay, a breathing tube, infections, heart failure, confusion about her wishes.
She’d always said she didn’t want extreme measures. But during surgery months earlier, she had verbally said “yes” to anything the doctors needed to do. So when she was intubated again, I felt torn. Did she really want this?
Eventually, we found the paperwork—clearly stating her wishes: die at home with hospice, if possible. But by then, she’d rallied for a day—bright and talkative, surrounded by grandkids. Then she had a stroke. And we all knew: this wasn’t the way she wanted to live.
We made her comfortable. One of us stayed with her at all times. And then one night, it was just me and her. I sat beside her, held her hand, and prayed with her aloud for nearly an hour. Her breath became labored. Her eyes unfocused. But at 11:50 p.m., she took her last breath—and her eyes, for a moment, locked in on something beautiful. I told her, “Go into the light, Mom. It’s okay.”
I think often of that sacred hour when she was transitioning. Before, I had heard about “the hour of death” in church, but now I understand what it truly means—the breathing, the struggle, the body failing. It isn’t pretty. It’s hard. But the relief that follows, the belief in what comes next—it changed me forever.
If you’re sitting beside someone you love in a hospital right now, waiting and watching, know that your presence matters more than you can imagine. Even in their struggle, even when it seems they don’t know you’re there, you are giving the greatest gift—walking with them.
We buried her on what would have been her 73rd birthday. At her grave, I spoke: “She wore her body out and her will to live with it. Her pain is now gone, but the memory of her remains strong. Keep that memory alive in your hearts and in your actions.”
Now, we have her dog Sugar. She’s not the easiest pet—stubborn and set in her ways, just like Mom was. Sometimes I think that’s the point—some things linger, live on. Her love, her lessons, her spirit—it’s all still here, sometimes in unexpected packages. We just have to keep choosing to see it and to live as she taught us to live.
