Bernie, my mom, passed away early this morning.
It’s been quite a journey these past few years—for us as sisters—to support and care for her. She was quite a woman.
In these last few days sitting beside her, I was struck by her sheer life force. Even near the end, that determination was so present. We always knew she didn’t want any life-extending measures, and yet, as her dementia progressed, it was sometimes hard to witness her body continuing on long after her mind had started to fade.
She lived in a care home in Seattle, which ended up being a much better fit for her than the assisted living apartment. It offered warmth and connection, and the staff there really held her with care. My older sister Penny carried much of the weight—getting her to and from appointments, making sure she always knew her family was close. As mom became less mobile and her memory slipped further, Penny worked closely with the team at Langford House to keep her safe and at home, especially as we worried about the risk of her being sent to urgent care or the hospital against her wishes.
Eventually, the moment came when we could call in hospice. The focus shifted to comfort—to helping her transition to her next adventure, to release this body that had served her so well for so long. I think as soon as she knew she was surrounded by people who were there to help her let go, she was ready.
But that didn’t make it easy.
The hospice team was incredible, working seamlessly with the home care team. My mother was surrounded by healing and compassionate hands. And for the first time in a long while, Penny didn’t have to carry the heavy load alone.
We were told it could be weeks, maybe months. But soon, without the pressure of constant medical intervention, she softened. She allowed herself to simply receive—music, massage, touch.
I got the call that it might be very soon and was able to come. We sat together for hours. My sisters and I talked and shared. One of us was on FaceTime, but it felt like we were all in the room. We laughed. We cried. We told our mother she could go—we were ready.
Still, she labored with her breath—each one seeming like it could be the last. Dying is hard. I could feel that she was mostly gone already, as if one foot were in Heaven and the other still here. To me, it seemed like she was already somewhere else—some other time or space—but felt she had to bring her body with her.
That body was complete. Fully used. Fully lived.
And finally, she let go.
I’m so grateful I could be there—with my sisters—as we said goodbye.
May you soar, Bernie.
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