“When a loved one is coming, sometimes they make it and sometimes they don’t. Whatever happens is the way it is supposed to be. It’s what the patient wants,” spoke the hospice nurse on the other end of the line. The “loved one” was me in Los Angeles. “They” was my Mom in Virginia, and she was dying. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I had planned to fly to Virginia on Monday because Mom had been moved into hospice earlier in the week. Now she wasn’t eating or drinking. The nurse calmly explained that Mom was in the transitioning phase of death, and likely transitioning to the active phase of death. It could be a few hours or a few weeks, but Mom is going to die. I wanted to be by her side.

Mom was 96, and I knew this day was coming. For years I cherished the image of Mom in her flowered flannel duster waiving to me from the carport stoop as I left her home for the airport, knowing it could be the last time. For the last 12 months, that goodbye image was a tight hug from Mom under a blanket in her electric Lazy Boy at Bellaire assisted living home. The most recent hard goodbye was this past Christmas.

Once I hung up with the nurse, I logged on to find the flight that could get me to Mom’s side the soonest. It was in the early months of Covid19, and many of the direct flights from LAX to IAD were cancelled. I left LA at 5:25 am Sunday on a flight to Denver with an hour layover and then on to Dulles. The flights were on time. I picked up my rental car, put the cruise control on 70, and didn’t stop until I got to Mom’s bedside.

I arrive at 5:45 pm. Mom is lying in bed, eyes closed, with a plastic two-pronged oxygen tube in her nose. My sister Lucy is here. I hold Mom’s hand and talk to her. There is no recognition of my presence in the room – no squeezing my hand, blinking her eyes or reaction to the sound of my voice. The staff at Bellaire and the hospice nurse balance coming in frequently to respecting our privacy.

I’ve never watched someone die, and now the woman who gave me life is leaving this one. She makes loud gurgling sounds. Thick yellow mucous streams from her nose, clogging the oxygen tubes resting on her nostrils. Dark liquids drool from her mouth onto her chin. The nurses and the aides come at least hourly to clear her pathways, clean her face and take her vitals. Lucy and I spend the night, Sis on the small flowered sofa and me on a thick mat that had been by Mom’s bed to break a fall. She won’t be needing it.

I wake early Monday morning. Whitney, a petite, pretty aide in turquoise scrubs, is taking Mom’s vitals. “I came in every hour to check on Miss Martha to make sure she was comfortable. I hope I didn’t wake you.” With only a few hours sleep the night before my flight and an Ambien before bed, I didn’t hear a thing. “What is her blood pressure?”

“70/59, and her pulse is 39.”

Mom’s gurgling is slower and quieter, more pleasant than the night before. She is breathing deeply. I sit beside her, holding her hand, watching male and female red birds alternate at the bird feeder outside Mom’s window. I squirt thick white lotion from a plastic tube on Mom’s nightstand into my hands, rubbing it over Mom’s frail arms and hands. She’s wearing the wedding ring my father gave her in 1945. The gold in the back is thread thin from never taking it off in 75 years. I glance up from massaging, and see five deer standing in a staggered line looking towards us. I mention this to the next med-tech who comes in. “Oh my, we haven’t seen deer here in weeks.” The tech checks Mom’s blood pressure twice before she leaves, trying to get a reading.

I step into the bathroom eight feet away from Mom’s bed to brush my teeth. The vibration of my Sonicare toothbrush echoes in the small medicinal bathroom. I nonsensically sense that the loud toothbrush is disturbing Mom. I run to her side, and her left eye is open. “Lucy, come here. Hurry!” I sit down on the chair on Mom’s left side, take her hand and with a mouth full of toothpaste say, “Mom, it’s Mary. I made it home. I love you.” Though no words come out, Mom moves her lips as if to say, “I love you.” And then nothing.

Lucy and I sat still as mice on either side of her bed. “Is she dead?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Lucy replies.

We each put our ear to her chest to see if she’s breathing. We don’t think she is. I tell Lucy to ring the bell. We sit there not knowing what to do, wondering why no one is responding.

“Are you sure you hit the buzzer?”

Lucy looks down at the button beside Mom’s bed and seeing no light, realizes she didn’t hit it hard enough. She hits it again, and a young aide in khaki pants and teal shirt comes right away.

“We think she’s dead.”

Serina stops, lifts her hand to her mouth, and gasps, “Oh.” She runs to get the med-tech who pages the hospice nurse who comes right away and confirms our suspicions. Mom is gone at 10:13 a.m., less than 18 hours after I’d arrived.

And I was by her side.