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A friend texted me last Tuesday morning at 6:46 am.
\”How\’s ur mom this morning?\” she wrote.
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Seven hours earlier, I had texted her to cancel our morning art class/playdate. I was rushing to the hospital; my mom had gone into septic shock.
The hours between were a blur of driving, waiting, and crying. I could hardly see my phone, move my fingers, or even breathe. \”She is gone\” I typed.
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She is gone. The words echoed in my brain over and over and over.
She is gone.
She is gone.
There would never be another hug, another smile, another family trip. No more kids tickled, no more stories read, no more cheeks kissed or necks nuzzled.
She was gone.
She had stopped breathing only minutes earlier. Flat lines still buzzed across monitors; leads were still attached to her skin. Her eyes were still open; her skin was still warm. My sister still sat at her bedside, still holding her motionless hand.
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Nothing had changed, but nothing was the same.
The moment I had been anticipating and dreading came and went, and I couldn\’t believe it.
I had been devastated for so long, I thought it couldn\’t get worse.
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It got worse.
Nothing could fix my broken heart, not even the knowledge that she was finally free from pain.
There was no solace, but there was support. Friends gathered around, emailing and texting and calling and sending Facebook messages. My sisters and my grandma cried with me, and the load seemed lighter spread among us.
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Planning a funeral is ridiculously expensive and consuming. We spent every minute of every day making arrangements.
The church was peaceful and serene. The flowers were beautiful. The pictures were a perfect reflection of a life well-lived. Everything was bright and colorful and befitted my mother.
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Her longtime friend performed the funeral and delivered a short message about her sense of humor and infectious laugh. He started 5 minutes late, homage to a woman who was never on time for anything in her entire life.
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My older sister and I witnessed her cremation today, and a portion of her ashes are tucked away in a safe spot in my home.
Disbelief still sits heavy on my chest. I can\’t believe that I will never see her face or hear her voice again, but I won\’t.
She is gone.
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