Hi Blog Friends,

This post is an excerpt from something I’m working on. I’m not sure what final form it will take, but I hope you enjoy the sneak peek. I welcome any feedback.

Unfortunately, I’ll be posting more sporadically across the next several months because work and life are speeding up. I always love to hear from you, however, so feel free to reach out whenever you feel like it!

Until next time,

Lauren

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EXCERPT

It was a Saturday evening in late January, two weeks after my 28^th birthday. Like the months leading up to this day, we were waiting.  There was, however, one distinct difference. After the 10 agonizing months that preceded this night – 10 months of never knowing what was around the corner no matter how many patient doctors we gripped on to – the night my mom died, I had a 10-page booklet with enumerated steps of what to expect. It was called “A Guide to Death and Dying,” and when the hospice nurse had placed it in my lap several days prior, I was dumbfounded.

After experiencing the duration of a disease marked by so many more questions than answers, I was shocked to learn that the medical community had enough material about the passage from life to death to write a book about it. But after I took a deep breath, opened to page 1 and started reading, I felt relief. Finally, more answers than questions. Finally, something to rely on.

This guide was the reason why, when the guttural noise my mom had been making for the last several days stopped for a full 5 seconds, I knew she would die within the next 20 minutes.

I don’t remember what I was wearing that night, and I don’t remember what the weather was like. I don’t remember how many people came into her bedroom for that final moment, and I don’t exactly remember the words I whispered into her ear as her breathing came to a stop. What I do remember is the strong and steady web of women’s arms and hands around my mom – My two hands holding her left hand. Debbie, with her left arm wrapped around my shoulders, and her right hand, palm up, supporting Mom’s left arm. Rhona, another one of Mom’s oldest friends, across from us, both arms outstretched, her hands gently resting on Mom’s right arm. And Aunt Judy, Mom’s only sister, hands resting softly at Mom’s right side.

When her breathing stopped, I dropped to the absolute depths of loneliness. There is no other way to describe it. It was the most terrifying, unadulterated feeling of loneliness, immediately causing my teeth to chatter and my body to shake. My parents were dead, and I was alone.

But I was only alone for a microsecond.  Because what I remember just as clearly as my teeth chattering and my body shaking is my best friend from college, standing behind me with her hands firmly placed on my shoulders. She was either trying to contain my shakes or join me, creating a conduit for them to leave my body. And then Rhona’s arms were around me too, and I grabbed Debbie and Aunt Judy, and we all held on to each other, still surrounding my mom and watching her just as intently as we had for the entirety of her illness. I watched her slip away, and, at the same time, I watched the women around me come into focus with more clarity than ever before.

END OF EXCERPT