Called Heavenward
January 15, 2010
Yesterday, I gave my mother permission to die.
Monday, she was admitted to T J Samson Hospital with blood clots in both lungs; the doctor said large blood clots. She was taken by ambulance to the ER last Thursday, with the same symptoms as she had Monday when she was admitted; she should have been admitted, but wasn’t. She cannot roll over without help; she cannot sit up without feeling faint; she has not walked across the floor since Monday. Someone has to bathe her, change her, attach her to fifty cords, place an oxygen sensor on her finger to make sure she’s getting the right amount of oxygen to her brain, reposition the oxygen cord when it falls out of her nose, pull the bed rails up to protect her from falling out and, up until today, feed her. She is on blood thinners which are causing her nose to be dry and bleed. Her right hand shakes for some reason unbeknownst to the doctor, causing her food to shake off the fork or spoon whenever she tries to eat by herself. She has bronchitis and coughs, trying to get her breath with blood clots in both lungs. And did I mention she has
dementia?
My mom (and we) has been called heavenward her whole life; now I can see it more than ever. And she is so ready. If she did not have heaven to look forward to, her condition this week would have been hopeless—eternally hopeless. Looking at her from an earthly perspective her body is absolutely worn out. She is so weak and frail, unable to stand on her own. She is not the same woman she used to be just five years ago.
She has progressively gotten worse each year.
Yesterday the Spirit revealed to me an important truth that I would have never known on my own that has given me great peace—unbelievable peace about mom's passing. The greatest mourning I will experience at her death will not be that she is gone, but that I am left. The fact that she will no longer be sick, helpless, fragile, frail, debilitated is something I look forward to. I know she will be in a better place--the place God has been calling her to all her life. I do not want to deprive her of that, by my selfishness to keep her here on earth. I literally give her permission to die.
I am the one who is grieving NOW because she is so frail and because I will be left to continue the cycle of pain, helplessness, fragility, weakness and debilitation when she is gone. I will be living in a fallen world when she will be living in paradise. Oh how I want that for her! I looked at her today and thought, “Moma, you are so close to seeing Jesus, I can’t imagine getting to see him so soon.” And I actually almost envy her because soon she will be sitting at his feet, saying hi to Daddy Bill, walking in pure light, having perfect knowledge—the opposite of what she experiences today. She will no longer have, nor remember, the pain. She will not be frail any longer.
When Jesus wept at Lazarus death, yes he loved Mary and Martha, but he wept because of humanity and what humanity has to go through—death, mourning, crying, and pain—why I weep for my mother now. Solomon says that the day of death is better than the day of birth. This week I have been made to undestand why.
Yesterday, I gave my mother permission to die.
Monday, she was admitted to T J Samson Hospital with blood clots in both lungs; the doctor said large blood clots. She was taken by ambulance to the ER last Thursday, with the same symptoms as she had Monday when she was admitted; she should have been admitted, but wasn’t. She cannot roll over without help; she cannot sit up without feeling faint; she has not walked across the floor since Monday. Someone has to bathe her, change her, attach her to fifty cords, place an oxygen sensor on her finger to make sure she’s getting the right amount of oxygen to her brain, reposition the oxygen cord when it falls out of her nose, pull the bed rails up to protect her from falling out and, up until today, feed her. She is on blood thinners which are causing her nose to be dry and bleed. Her right hand shakes for some reason unbeknownst to the doctor, causing her food to shake off the fork or spoon whenever she tries to eat by herself. She has bronchitis and coughs, trying to get her breath with blood clots in both lungs. And did I mention she has
dementia?
My mom (and we) has been called heavenward her whole life; now I can see it more than ever. And she is so ready. If she did not have heaven to look forward to, her condition this week would have been hopeless—eternally hopeless. Looking at her from an earthly perspective her body is absolutely worn out. She is so weak and frail, unable to stand on her own. She is not the same woman she used to be just five years ago.
She has progressively gotten worse each year.
Yesterday the Spirit revealed to me an important truth that I would have never known on my own that has given me great peace—unbelievable peace about mom's passing. The greatest mourning I will experience at her death will not be that she is gone, but that I am left. The fact that she will no longer be sick, helpless, fragile, frail, debilitated is something I look forward to. I know she will be in a better place--the place God has been calling her to all her life. I do not want to deprive her of that, by my selfishness to keep her here on earth. I literally give her permission to die.
I am the one who is grieving NOW because she is so frail and because I will be left to continue the cycle of pain, helplessness, fragility, weakness and debilitation when she is gone. I will be living in a fallen world when she will be living in paradise. Oh how I want that for her! I looked at her today and thought, “Moma, you are so close to seeing Jesus, I can’t imagine getting to see him so soon.” And I actually almost envy her because soon she will be sitting at his feet, saying hi to Daddy Bill, walking in pure light, having perfect knowledge—the opposite of what she experiences today. She will no longer have, nor remember, the pain. She will not be frail any longer.
When Jesus wept at Lazarus death, yes he loved Mary and Martha, but he wept because of humanity and what humanity has to go through—death, mourning, crying, and pain—why I weep for my mother now. Solomon says that the day of death is better than the day of birth. This week I have been made to undestand why.
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