The Long Goodbye

Boy, did they name it right.

For 27 years, my mother and I have been on this journey—a rollercoaster of highs and lows since her diagnosis with mental illness when I was just 17 years old. It’s been exhausting, heartbreaking, and relentless. And now, as we approach the inevitable end, I’m holding on by a thread, grappling with emotions I can barely comprehend.

Mum has always been a fighter. Whether it was as a young girl demanding a fair education, a single mother striving to provide for her daughters, or a survivor battling domestic violence and social injustice—she fought every step of the way. It was never an easy life, but she never stopped. Even now, when there’s nothing left to fight for, she clings to the remnants of this life with the same fierce determination.

Five months ago the doctors gave her less than a week to live after her bowel ruptured. She defied them, fighting through five nights of agony and prayers while the priest administered her last rites. And yet, here she is, still fighting, while I sit helplessly beside her, waiting for her peace to come.

This is how it all unfolded:

Friday, May 30, 2024

Mum laying in her nursing home bed before we went to the ER.

The call came in late that evening—a call I’d been bracing for over the past 27 years. Still, nothing can truly prepare you for it. I’d just gotten home after a long week. The kids had been difficult, my manager at work was his usual relentless force of efficiency, leaving a trail of team moral in disarray, leaving me to pick up the pieces – I was exhausted. I hadn’t made it to the gym and all I wanted was a moment to breathe. But the second my phone rang, the air felt heavy. As if the universe was giving me a warning for what it was sending my way.

“Mum’s not feeling well,” the nurse told me. She’d been vomiting, though there was no fever. I remembered the countless nights nursing my own children through illness, waiting for fevers to break, cradling them to sleep. But this was different. The world slowed as I grabbed my keys and drove to her side.

When I arrived, she was lying on her bed, staring at me with childlike fear in her now yellow eyes. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered, her words trembling with uncertainty. She couldn’t articulate the pain, yet she knew it was there. I pinched her arm—she didn’t flinch. She vomited again. We called an ambulance.

At the hospital, the news hit like a freight train. A ruptured colon. Sepsis. Kidney and liver failure. They told me she wouldn’t survive more than five days. Surgery wasn’t an option; her frail body and dementia made it too dangerous.

She didn’t fully understand what was happening, and I didn’t leave her side—not for a second. When she began bleeding heavily, I carried her to the bathroom, praying for the strength to keep going as I cleaned her up. She kept asking for her children, her voice trembling, “Where’s Amanda? I need her to take me home.”

I made the gut-wrenching phone calls to my siblings, Face Timed family members, and tried to find the words to explain what was happening. We were moved to a private room, the door marked with a sign warning others to enter quietly or not at all.

Day 1 of 5

Mum spent most of the day in a daze, mumbling incoherent words, staring at the   ceiling, and occasionally calling out for loved ones long gone. The doctors adjusted her medications, trying to make her “comfortable.” They gave me an armchair, but sleep felt impossible. I didn’t know what to do, what to think so I just sat there beside her in a hole. Doctors gave me end of life literature to help me plan for her death. I was offered counselling. This is not how I had imagined the end of our journey together to go. I had always thought I’d be given a sign – a beautiful butterfly flying by perhaps. Some kind of warning. A bright light at night. Something. Anything. But it was all very clinical. That night, I woke to the hair standing up on the back of my neck….. I wasn’t sure if it was her tethering from her old vessel or if loved ones/angels were there trying to help us both through…. but I FELT it.  I could feel that we were not alone. Mum was praying—arms raised, murmuring the rosary in a mix of English, Tonga (our Zambian mother tongue) and a language I couldn’t recognize. Tears streamed down my face as I realized she wasn’t just praying for herself; she was surrendering her fight to something greater, seeking peace in her own way.

Heading to hospital from the Nursing home.

Nursing My mother, vulnerable in the hospital bed, as the  doctors shatter my world.

Day 2 of 5

Her condition worsened. She refused food, even water-soaked sponges. Her body trembled less, but the sepsis indicators rose higher. She would call out for her long deceased sister Mary-Regis or say she was waiting for her father to come get her. She asked me where her mother was, then look at me and say “what’s your name”…..when I said it’s Amanda, your daughter, nothing registered. No reaction, she would just look right through me (typical of my life though). The doctors told me the end was near. I asked if I could take her home, wanting her last moments to be in a place she loved, surrounded by those who loved her.

The nursing home transformed her room into a sanctuary. They replaced her mattress, hung her favorite photos, and welcomed her back with open arms. The love and care they showed were overwhelming.

Family and friends trickled in to say their goodbyes, some of whom I hadn’t seen in years. Even the staff came on their days off to sit with her, sing to her, and hold her hand, cry and pray. It was both beautiful and excruciating. I would stay up all night studying mums blood test results and MRI imagery, trying to make sense of the situation.

Documenting mums deterioration

A moment in frozen despair as her breathing begun to rattle.

Mum praying in her sleep. I hoped “they” heard her prayers.

The Long Goodbye

I’ve said goodbye so many times now, yet it never gets easier. Each farewell cuts deeper than the last. She’d hate this—this prolonged suffering, this helplessness. And I hate it for her. This is not who she is.

I’ve prayed with every fibre of my being, begging God to give her peace. I’ve told her it’s okay to go, that she’s given us everything we need. I’ve reminded her of the life she’s lived—the battles she’s fought, the love she’s given, the legacy she leaves behind. I’ve told her about the loved ones waiting for her, promising that I’ll be fine when she finally lets go. In a fleeting moment of clarity, she turned to me, her eyes locking onto mine, and whispered that she was worried about leaving me too soon. Even in her own suffering, she thought of me. How could she? My heart shattered as I prayed desperately for her to embrace peace, to let go, and find rest with God and her loved ones. Her life here, with me, has been riddled with pain, and it broke me to see her endure it any longer. Through tears, I found myself pleading, begging her to let go—to rest, to be free. “I’ll be okay, Mum,” I choked out, though I wasn’t sure I truly believed it. Please go.

But this isn’t my journey. It’s hers.

Now, as the clock ticks past 3:30 a.m into day 3 of 5, I sit here, writing through my tears, waiting for the sun to rise on another day I wish wouldn’t come.

I pray this ends today.

Please, no more.

Lord, show her mercy. Grant her the peace she deserves.

Life will be good for you on the other side mum. Please let go

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Thank you for taking the time to read my story, for walking with me through the pain and the love that surrounds this journey. I hope in my experience, you find a reminder of the strength within yourself, the resilience of love, and the peace that comes with knowing you are not alone.

What happened next? I’ll share that in my next post, where I’ll walk you through her next moments and the profound impact they had on my heart and soul.