Bye bye mom I will miss you so much

Saving Mom: A Heartbreaking Farewell

My Christian faith has always guided me to embrace forgiveness and understanding, even when faced with the most challenging situations. It requires unwavering trust in God's plan, even when it seems beyond comprehension.

These principles of faith have been instilled in me by my mother, who not only spoke of them but also lived them through her actions. She was a remarkable woman, strong and compassionate, a true role model for all who knew her.

Yet, as I write these words, I cannot help but feel a sense of selfishness. I find myself pleading with God, asking Him to understand my pain and despair, to overlook my mistakes, and to accept me for who I am.

My mother's strength was unwavering, even after years of caring for her children, grandchildren, and handling church matters. She was the embodiment of resilience, a gentle soul who could transform into a force to be reckoned with at a moment's notice. In our family, she played the role of an enforcer, always there to get things done.

Our phone calls became more than just casual check-ins. My mother began expressing her fears, vague but disconcerting. She spoke of her unease with loud noises and crowds, a stark departure from her usual sunny disposition.

Gradually, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, and a visit to the hospital followed. Alzheimer's, a cruel thief, stealthily robbed her of her essence, her personality, and her memories. It left her and us, her loved ones, grappling with a profound loss.

My last conversation with my mother took place in the hospital's locked unit. She looked at me, but I could tell she didn't recognize me. She mumbled, her anxiety palpable. This was unlike any encounter I'd had with her before.

In a secluded room, she began to share a tale of impending danger, a delusion that had consumed her. She believed that malevolent forces were plotting to harm my niece and little sister, a horrifying conviction that had gripped her. She begged me to rescue her from this fabricated threat.

I tried to reassure her that she was safe, but she remained trapped in her delusion. Her pleas for help grew louder, more frantic. A nurse entered, attempting to soothe her, but Mom was fixated on her fears.

Eventually, I reluctantly left the room as advised by the nurse. I stood in the hallway, overwhelmed with emotions. I felt as though I had failed her, that I had abandoned the person who had always been my rock.

My mother's cries for help continued, echoing in the locked unit. I left her, but it was as if a part of me had been torn away. The mother I knew was slipping away, replaced by a stranger.

In the following years, I saw photos of family members visiting her in the nursing home. They encouraged me to visit, too, implying that my absence was a mark of neglect. They might have been right.

I felt anger, both at myself and at her. She had left me, albeit involuntarily, and I couldn't reconcile this with the woman I had known. She was no longer herself, and it pained me deeply.

I resorted to the coping mechanism of detachment, a habit I had developed in childhood. It was my way of preserving my sanity in the face of separation.

Years later, I received word that my mother was in the hospital and nearing the end of her life. I hesitated, conflicted, but ultimately went to be by her side.

As I entered her hospital room, one of my sisters remarked, "I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you were allergic to hospital beds."

Behind that hospital door, my mother had already passed away for me. It was my way of coping with the overwhelming sense of abandonment.

In my career, I often served as a guardian for individuals with dementia, visiting them in hospitals and reporting back to the court. On one occasion, a man begged me to let him go, echoing my mother's pleas. The door closed behind me, taking me back to that locked unit.

The fear of abandonment and the desire for a loved one to always be there are universal emotions. I couldn't bear to witness my mother's suffering or her departure from reality.

I cried as I left the hospital that day, just as I had after most visits. It was a deep sense of sorrow, a feeling of helplessness that washed over me.

Mom, only God knows how much I loved you and how agonizing it was to leave you behind that closed door. Please forgive me for "letting you go" and for saying "Goodbye Momma." I hope to see you again someday.