Why I Celebrate Death Days

Twenty-five years ago today, my mother died after spending 11 days in a coma in the hospital after a massive stroke had caused her already worn out body to begin shutting down. Two types of cancer over the course of 9 years had gradually tipped the scales to the point where her body could no longer sustain her.

I remember those 11 days as some of the most difficult and most beautiful of my life. They serve as a poignant example of how the truly meaningful events of our lives typically hold both deep sorrow and deep joy. All of it was there, in a hospital room that became a sacred space because of the people who entered and the love that was expressed.

During those days, my senses were either extremely heightened or nearly cut off. I could barely choke down half of a plain bagel each morning - the only thing my anxious stomach could handle - and sleep was nearly non-existent even though I was emotionally exhausted. Simple, everyday logic completely escaped me as I pushed through the thick fog of this in-between existence.

And (not but) the depth of love and devotion poured out like anointing oil over my family during that time was, and remains, a gift of indescribable magnitude. No one wants to enter a hospital room where a person you love is dying, but come they did. Different friends every day, blessing us with their willingness to face this vulnerable moment together. Offering stories of times they had shared with Mary, my mother, which gave us permission to laugh and cry, hold hands, sing, pray and say goodbye.

It took me a few years to be able to look back on this time without the terrible, overwhelming grief settling in, but even so, it seemed important to put myself back in that room each January 9th, if just for a minute or two. To feel again how gut-wrenching it was and also how beautiful it was. To remember an unselfconscious display of affection in the midst of an exhausting vigil. And to be reminded that life frequently holds sorrow and joy side by side. That’s why I celebrate the death days of those I’ve loved.

Thanks for the 11 days, Mama. I love you.