The Final Curtain



This is a true story that happened over 13 years ago.


“Say your goodbye,” the emergency room doctor suggested, his eyes brimming with compassion. But the deep wrinkles etched across his brow revealed the weariness of all the pain and death they had witnessed behind the hastily drawn curtain.

Say your goodbye.

The beeping of machines dissolved into the background. The relentless ticktock of the clock on the ER wall paused as if waiting for my response. I felt myself sinking into black nothingness. My fingers shook as I clasped her limp hand and traced her wedding ring, its sharp edges jolting me awake. The abyss beckoned me: Don’t be afraid! Lean in! Peer into the darkness!

Say your goodbye.

I leaned over to kiss her pale cheek for one last time. I knew my mother was minutes away from leaving her body, but never expected the stark coldness, the unforgiving finality, the emptiness lying beneath my lips.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. I never had the chance to say goodbye to my dying dad. How do you say goodbye? What do I say? Thanks? Thanks for raising me? For teaching me hard lessons? I’ll see you again someday? Catch you on the flip side? Don’t go? Don’t leave me here all alone? Fear gripped my heart, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I was suffocating right along with my mother. A torrent of tears spilled down from my eyes onto her face. My entire body shook as I held onto her hand.  I can’t do this alone. I can’t do this. I can’t say goodbye. I’m not ready.

“Mom…I love you,” I sputtered into the abyss.

“I’m…..fine….don’t….worry,” my mother gasped, her breath gurgling between each word. “I love you…tell….your brothers…I love them.” She closed her eyes.

This was it. I can’t believe she’s dying. My mom! Dying! It’s just not real. It can’t be real. An ER nurse gently ushered me away from my mother as the doctor closed the curtain around the stretcher once again. She walked me to a small windowless waiting room separate from the larger waiting room outside the ER. This must be the private room for family members waiting for someone to die? Will they move me to an even smaller room when they tell me she’s dead? “We will try and get her stable,” the nurse said. “For now just wait in here. I’ll come get you if anything happens.”

It was midnight. Only bad things happen at midnight.

Only a few hours before I was drifting off to sleep next to my snoring husband and one-year-old son in our upstairs bedroom. A heavy rain pounded on the roof of our house. Without warning, I felt the atmosphere shift; the particles in the air pulsing and bright. Something is off, the universe whispered. Something big is happening.  Electricity surged through my body. The only other time I’ve felt this way was the night my dad suddenly died in a hospital bed 3,000 miles away.

I sat up, listening intently to the steady thrumming of the rain above our heads. I nudged my husband awake. “What was that? Do you hear that?”

“What? I don’t hear anything,” my husband whispered. “It’s just the rain. It’s nothing.” He rolled over to snore again.

But the rain wasn’t right; the wind urgent. Something was wrong.

I crept down the hallway and stairs into the dark kitchen. I wasn’t sure why I was checking, but I knew I had to check. An unseen force propelled me to walk through the kitchen to the door leading to our attached garage. I slowly opened the door, the wind howling outside in response. A low grown escaped from the shadows on the floor. There was my mom, lying on the bottom steps below her in-law apartment above the garage.

“I…can’t…breathe,” she whispered, her tiny frail body wrapped in her nightgown and bathrobe. She was still clutching her phone in one hand. She had managed to make her way down the steps to get help, but didn’t have the energy to remain standing long enough to knock on my door.

Now I was in a hospital, with my mother and The Abyss hiding a few feet away behind a thin white curtain. Soon two of my older brothers arrived and we waited, the foggy early morning hours bleeding into each other. Finally, a nurse entered the “Waiting For Death” room where we had sat for hours like stone statues. “She’s turned a corner! She’s stable!” she informed us.

We were stunned. The ER doctor suggested many times to me that she would probably die that night as she was drowning in her own fluids, her lungs almost completely filled from the congestive heart failure. But now she was suddenly stable. “If you hadn’t found her when you did…” he said to me, his voice trailing off.

My mom almost died that night back in 2003. I said my final goodbye, but the universe had other ideas. They transferred her to Maine Medical Center in Portland and a week later she underwent a quintuple bypass and valve replacement surgery at the age of 69. After the ten hour operation, she emerged feeling like a new woman. “I have a new heart now!” she told me in recovery. The surgeon informed us the average lifespan after such a surgery was 10 years.

Of course, her Mainer stubbornness proved him wrong. I’m thankful to have spent an additional 13 years with my mother and counting. She’s 83 now and enjoys relatively excellent health. I’ve let a lot of things go since she almost died. Peering into the abyss will do that to you. Our once stormy relationship has softened over the years to one of forgiveness, respect, and love.

Often we talk about those final moments; the time she was almost pulled over the edge. I’ve asked her more than once if it hurt to not be able to breathe, or if she was scared to die.

“Oh no, not at all,” she insists. “There was no pain. It was very peaceful. I saw your dad, you know. He was standing at the foot of my bed with two really big angels on either side of him. I knew I would be okay. Not scared at all. I was ready to go.”

I’ve seen death up close before when I was 21 and viewed my dad’s lifeless body lying in a coffin. I’ve carried the burden of not being present when he left us. I felt cheated out of saying goodbye to him. Yet the years of guilt, anger and sadness gradually faded away, transforming into acceptance and gratitude.

I don’t know why I went out to the garage that night. But the universe has a way of balancing things out. Saying my last goodbye to my mom that rainy October night prepared me again for the final curtain. I know when the time truly comes for my mom or me, I’ll be ready to jump into that abyss with less fear and more love.

40 thoughts on “The Final Curtain

  1. Roxanne Jones

    What a poignant post! So glad you’ve had these extra years with your mom. Sounds like you were her guardian angel here on earth.
    Happy Mother’s Day!
    Best, Roxanne Roxanne Jones CEO & Syllable Counter Boomer Haiku LLC A mostly lighthearted, often-irreverent look at being a baby boomer, 17 syllables at a time 207.607.0210
    Read the weekly Boomer Haiku blog:
    Follow Boomer Haiku on social media: Facebook Twitter @RoxJonesWriter

  2. Very beautiful story and very poignant writing, as usual. Glad your Mom was able to step back into this world to spend more time with you and your family. And glad you went ot he garage that night. Happy Mother’s Day to you – and to your Mom. Enjoy.

  3. WOW! One heck of a story, Maineiac! You listened to your gut, had the courage to tell your mom goodbye, and somehow the planets aligned to give you thirteen more years (and counting) with her. I’m blown away by both the story and the ending. Great job! 🙂

  4. Wow, and so glad you still have your Mom. Mine will be 95 in a couple of weeks and doing OK for her age, though she has dementia. I was with my Dad when he died, as were my Mum, brother and hubby, so he didn’t die alone, and I was holding his left hand and Mum his right when he passed away. I shall always be grateful for that precious moment.

    1. I’m sorry you lost your dad. I hope when my mom dies I can be there for her when she passes as I wasn’t when my dad died. It’s a guilt I feel to this day that I never got to say goodbye to him.

  5. I needed to read this. After my sister died at age 34 last July, not unexpectedly (long, long story), but still shocking, and just having to put down one of our cats who has been a part of our lives for the last 18 years… I needed to read this. Death, and even those close calls, cause us to let go of things we would have clung to.

    Thank you.

  6. This is really beautiful. I lost a very well loved Uncle just this morning…life has a way of reminding us, often, that it’s all just “dust in the wind.” A hug to you and your feisty Mainer of a Mom.

  7. Margy

    What a wonderful Mother’s Day story! Glad your mom has had the chance to live past 69 – that sounds way too young to die – especially to all of us who are near that age!

  8. I’ve got tears rolling down my cheeks. What a wonderful telling of love, fear and acceptance, especially today. Happy mother’s day, Darla! 😘😘😘

  9. You write in such an engrossing manner I can’t but help hang on every word. I’m mere days into this splendid creative writing portal and am thrilled to have found a post like this! Thank you.

  10. karenskamera

    Wow, you certainly know how to put your thoughts and feelings into words, it is a lovely post, Thank you for sharing, I look forward to reading more of your posts x

  11. Ok, since your mom is the last Sanka drinker known to mankind, I am putting 2 and 2 together over here and conclude that it obviously has powers bigger than modern medicine for her to be able to endure this experience.
    I loved this post on so many levels. I’m especially glad that she has continued to live a full life and that you find the time to share her with us.
    Hope you had a lovely Mother’s Day!

  12. For the wee’est of seconds (there’s no good way to spell that!), I was anxious. I so love your mom, and your stories of her, Darla. And, I know she’s alive. But the story was so compelling, and moving, that for that wee’est of time, while I was reading, I was really upset. Damn you for that. Today of all days. Any day. Your mom cracks me up; so glad she stuck around! xo

  13. Usually it’s tears of laughter with you… today it was tears of compassion, sadness, then joy! I love how you write your life, Darla.

    You knew to go out to the garage that night because you listened to your sixth sense, your heart, your inner knowing. All of us are intuitives, most just never take the time to listen. I know you are glad you did – and your mom and family too.

    Much love and light,
    ~C ❤

Tell me about it.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s