Last night, I was driving home and the song “Let Her Go” by Passenger came on the radio. The song tugged at my broken heart and, the tears flowed. I just wanted my mom.

While I have always loved this song, the words landed in a deeper and more profound way as I continue to stumble through this fresh journey of grief. The three simple words of let her go quickly brought me back to October and a hospital room filled with love, fear and concern. A hospital room that would be my mom’s home for 13 long, heartbreaking days.

The vivid memories of those 13 days hold many different emotions. Sometimes, I find myself smiling when I think of the cute, witty things my mom said. Every once in a while, we would catch a glimpse of “mom” and for a moment, we would feel cautiously optimistic. Maybe she could get better and go home?

But those moments were short and bittersweet. Most of the time, mom was in pain, struggling and as each day passed by, I could feel her slipping farther away from me.

Still, I didn’t want to let her go. She’s my mom. How do you let go of someone who has been their from the moment I took my first breath and suddenly, I was facing holding the hand of the woman who gave me life take her last one.

To even think about it was excruciating and I didn’t want to think about saying goodbye.

The doctors and nurses were amazing and they were determined to find solutions to everything that was falling apart and all at the same time. One medical issue would be managed only to have it lead to the dam breaking in her body somewhere else.

Eventually, it became clear in a foggy kind of way, that the medical team was running out of options and when mom stopped eating or drinking, the reality of a painful and less than desirable outcome emerged.

Hospice. NO. Hospice. I’m not ready for that. Hospice. Maybe if we try this…

The word landed in my throat like a thick piece of sandpaper and I couldn’t get myself to say it or swallow it down.

Rationally, I knew our mom was struggling and I knew the possibility of her having a good quality of life moving forward (if she survived at all) was slim.

Rationally, I knew we were out of options and what little options left were not good ones. Not for her.

I was so grateful to share this journey with my brother and sister. To talk about the hard stuff and collectively make tough decisions that would ultimately change our lives.

Still, I didn’t want to let her go.

Then, I was asked if I was hanging on for her or for me. That hit hard but it was true. I was fighting the inevitable because I didn’t want to let her go. Even if it was the best thing for mom.

The weight of making those decisions just a few months ago was heavy and at times I felt as if I would break. And I did more than once.

But, letting go was the right thing to do.

It didn’t take long and the memories of those last hours are forever branded into my heart and head. There are days, flashbacks come with a vengeance and I can’t push them out or away.

To sit and hold the hand of someone you have loved and needed your entire life as their breathing slows and the light goes out of their bright and beautiful eyes, is both sacred and beautiful. It’s also one of the most painful and gut-wrenching things I have gone through.

I was holding her hand when she took her last breath. It was soft and it came and went like a whisper with no struggle or dramatic end. It was peaceful really and I’m so grateful for that.

Still, I couldn’t believe she was gone. I wanted to climb into bed with her and never leave her side. I didn’t want to let go of her hand. I wanted to scream and as the tears fell, I wanted to have another moment to hug her and say I love you one more time.

“Mom, wait. Come back to me. I have so much I want to say and so many things we need to experience and do. I want to have coffee and donuts and just sit with you.”

“Mom, I want you to enjoy and spend time with Luca and Alma. Oh how you loved them and they brought so much joy to you these past few months.”

“Mom, I’m so sorry. Did we do the right thing?”

Could she hear me? Did she know we were there? Was she ready to go? Did she know how much we all loved her and that we did the best we could to save her?

Grief. Anguish. Despair. Guilt. Fear. Shock. Uncertainty. Sadness. Emptiness. Pain.

My siblings and I stayed for a while, and then I couldn’t take it anymore. Somehow, I knew it was no longer my mom laying there. Physically, she was gone and I had to find the nearest exit and get out to my car so I could cry, scream and breathe. And I did.

I stayed until the end. And, I would do it all over again. It was beautiful and brutal all at the same time and I miss my mom so much. There are days when I still don’t believe she’s gone. Days when I struggle to accept the reality that she can’t answer my calls or that I can’t see her anymore.

It hurts and sometimes in unimaginable ways. My grief is heavy and palpable. It also comes in waves and like so many times before, I’m choosing to live while finding ways to carry my grief forward.

My grief ebbs and flows. It rises and falls. Some days are better than others and some days the tears won’t stop and it’s difficult to focus or carry on.

That’s how grief goes. And, I’m okay with that. My grief means something and knowing how much I loved my mom, it makes sense.

To be honest, I still don’t want to let her go. And I guess in some ways, I won’t ever completely let her go. She lives on through my siblings and I, her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Her beautiful legacy will always remain and the love and connection will always remain.

My mom travels with me wherever I go and her gentle whispers of guidance are never far away. A few of my friends gave me wind chimes after she died and I have them hanging in our entry way. Every time I walk in that room or open the door, I hear those chimes and I believe it’s my mom saying hello.

And, I say hello mama right back. Every single time.

Michele XOXO