Thank you, mum, for letting us out of the waiting room

Below you can find another chapter from the book Thank you, mum.  I hope it touches your heart.

(For the Swedish version, scroll down and then select Next post.)

I worked at Ericsson for a long time, my colleagues there felt more like close friends. We dealt with, not only thrilling projects, but also different stages in life.

            One of my colleagues had a mum, who got diagnosed with cancer. His whole family had to make regular runs to the hospital for many weeks. Whilst he was still trying to keep up with work, school, and his kids' activities.

            One morning, I asked him how he was. "Good," he responded. Then, almost as if ashamed, he said, "No, I'm not good. She's dead." I understood him so well. His calm exterior was not him being happy for his mother's passing away. He was happy she was out of her misery, that the fight was over for everyone included. They'd known for a long time she wouldn't "beat" it.

            I happen to dislike the term "beat cancer". As if all the ones who have died were defeated. As if they were weaker, not as strong fighters. It's got nothing to do with that. Death comes when it chooses to. We can strive to make life as wholesome and enjoyable as possible, but when it ends, it ends.

            Maybe, you, who are reading this, are a caregiver for someone who's about to leave this life. Maybe you're sitting in the waiting room of death with a loved one's hand in yours. Knowing that one day you'll walk out alone. If you're waiting for that day, to walk out of that waiting room and resume normalcy, there is nothing wrong with you. There is no reason to feel guilty or pretend to feel otherwise.

            We're not meant for waiting rooms. We were created to make the most out of life, to give our gifts to the world. Acknowledge that time in the waiting room, but never allow guilt to take you. Let life play out and remember that you're a loving, valuable person. Even those times in that waiting room can have glimpses of something you may one day be grateful for.

            Like the last time, we were with you, Mum. You were calm when we got there, sleeping with the help of some morphine. It was serene and peaceful. It was also apparent that you had no idea we were in there. We held you, cried for you, and sang for you. That's when I saw the change. I saw you squeeze Dad's hand, and a vague smile came upon your lips.

            "She can feel that we're here. Look she's smiling!"

Dad, crying with his head bent, looked up, and saw that you were with us. Aware of our presence. My brother got up from his chair, and all three of us held you tight and sang. A huge weight was taken off our shoulders when we left. We'd had a nice moment together, even though we were all prisoners in the waiting room of death.

            A few hours later, Dad got the call. You'd passed away. Before he told the rest of us, you two traveled the world again. You looked at old photos of your cruise. As soon as you left your body, you visited Dad, and the two of you shared yet another adventure.

            You flew out through the waiting room and opened the door for us so that we could leave. Away from anxiety and worry, into that feeling of loss, and new ways of being with you. Ways we're still trying to master. 

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This was a chapter from the book Thank you, mum. A book for those who miss someone.

To read all chapters, type Thank you Mum in the search field on this blog

If you would like to give the book to someone you think can be soothed by it, or to yourself, you can find it on Amazon.