My Mother Knew Death Was Imminent - She Taught Me It Was to be Faced Not Feared
Hope Infusion Newsletter - Memorial Day Weekend Edition - May 25, 2025
A Memorial Day Weekend to Remember
On Mother’s Day, I reflected on the complex relationship shared with my mother, a bond that has strengthened in death in ways that it never did in life. If you missed that post you can read it here. As Memorial Day Weekend 2025 unfolds, a very different memory echoes in the recesses of my mind, one not about reflection, but about revelation.
On the Sunday before Memorial Day 2011, my mother summoned me to her home asking me to come get “something.” I envisioned ribs, pound cake, and potato salad. I was wrong. What awaited when I arrived was not a meal, but a message. An unforgettably troubling message.
Facing Death Without Fear
I wasn’t prepared for what she wanted.
It was Memorial Day weekend and my mom had asked me to drop by so she could give me something. She didn’t disclose up front what the “something” was, and I didn’t bother to ask.
Perhaps I should have. Because upon arrival at her home, I was shocked to learn that the “something” she wanted to give me was her burial garments.
My mom was a retired nurse who understood much about medicine, much about her body, much about the illnesses that plagued her. She understood that her life was drawing to a close and was wholly unbothered by that impending reality.
“Keep this garment bag in your closet,” she said in her maternally matter-of-fact tone. “I’ve put everything you need in there, including my birth certificate.”
She went on to explain that the bag contained the clothes in which she wished to be buried. All of them, down to the underwear, bra, and stockings. She even included her birth certificate on the off chance I needed it to secure her death certificate. She disclosed that she was entrusting me with these items because my father was in denial.
I will never forget the calmness of her demeanor. Her tone was no different than if she’d been sharing the weekend weather forecast. I didn’t share that sense of calm. I felt disembodied, standing outside myself, watching the scene unfold as a third-party observer.
My heart? POUNDING! My brain? Alternating between shock and dismay. Was this really happening? Were we really having THIS conversation, at THIS time, in THIS casual manner? The answers were yes, yes and yes!
As I stood in stunned silence, she detonated another verbal landmine: "I'm not worried about dying. Franklin talks about it all the time when he comes to visit."
Silence filled the air.
I was already struggling with her declaration of impending death, already vexed about being selected for this grim task. I found myself entangled in a web of colliding thoughts, unable to find words with which to respond. And then, amidst the somber silence, two words found me in the form of a question: “Franklin who?”
“Franklin. Your uncle,” she responded nonchalantly. “He tells me what to expect.”
And with that, she went right back to the chores she’d been doing, sweeping the ceramic tile floor of her kitchen, blessed and unbothered as if what she’d disclosed was everyday normal.
But it wasn’t.
Franklin was my father’s fraternal twin. And in 2011, he had been dead for three years. My mother and uncle weren't particularly close when he was alive. He was a free-spirited visual artist and musician who resisted being tied down and tethered to any person or place long term. My mother found his carefree, artistic lifestyle too eccentric for she and my father's far more traditional ways. So I find it curious that he of all the deceased forbears, was her afterlife liaison.
I regret not posing the questions I was too stunned to ask. Did he come in dreams? Waking visions? Physical presence? Was it frightening? These riddles remain unanswered.
But this I know: My mother was in her home, fully cognizant, in her right mind, proceeding with business as usual. She was a woman of science, logic, and order, not given to "woo-woo" or fanciful thinking. Though I don't know how she interacted with my uncle, I fully believe she did.
She transitioned to eternity two short months later, on August 1, 2011.
In her final week, the Palliative Care team reached out with an urgent summons for me to come to the hospital. I was unnerved because my father was still alive and had the final say on all medical decisions. When I suggested they call him, they let me know: "Your mother asked for you specifically."
I found her awake in ICU, frail but alert, a well-worn stone eroded by the persistent ravages of disease. Her first words weren't a greeting. She stared at me with a hawk-like gaze and whispered, "I want to go home!"
I was puzzled by the request. Her condition was critical and discharge was not possible."Mom, I know you’re tired of being here, but you're not well enough to go home."
"I WANT TO GO HOME!" she repeated, more forceful the second time, like a low-decibel scream. She hesitated, then added, "Your father won't let me. He’s being selfish.”
And then I understood.
My feisty, five-foot-two mother had never allowed my father to "let" her do anything. She was a force of nature with steely resolve and fierce determination. Asking permission wasn't her style. And to know my father was to know he was one of the most selfless beings on the planet, except when it came to the prospect of being separated from his beloved partner of 50+ years.
"Okay," I conceded.
The Palliative Care nurse pulled me aside to discuss prognosis and Do Not Resuscitate orders. And I left ICU knowing the “home” to which my mother desired to go wasn't the one in which she’d resided the two decades prior.
Two days later, she was transferred to hospice and passed a few days thereafter.
When the call came that she was no longer with us I handed over the garment bag per her instructions.
In hindsight, I'm struck by how masterfully she modeled acceptance. Not everyone knows their death months in advance. She seized that opportunity to prepare, living what it looks like to face death rather than fear it.
I now reflect back on that Memorial Day discussion with appreciation. As bizarre as it sounded, my mother knew exactly of WHAT she spoke, WHEN she spoke it.
And that’s the thing about my mom—she usually did!
Why This Story Matters - The Connection to Now
On Memorial Day, we honor those who gave their lives in service to our country. This year, I’m reminded that my mother understood something profound about duty and courage. As the wife of an Army officer and Vietnam veteran, she knew that facing the inevitable with dignity wasn’t just a military virtue, it was a human one.
As I watch our leaders dodge hard conversations and see so many citizens grasp for certainty in an uncertain age, I return to my mother’s example: The quiet strength it takes to prepare for what you cannot change, and the even greater courage it takes to do so with grace.
Her clarity is now my North star: To meet each ending with honesty, to prepare not just for ourselves but for those who will carry on, and to trust that, as in her case, love leaves instructions for the living.
In a nation teetering at the crossroads, we could do worse than to follow her lead.
As Americans grapple with deep divisions and uncertain futures, perhaps we need more of what my mother demonstrated that weekend: The courage to face difficult truths head-on, the wisdom to prepare for what’s coming, and the grace to help others navigate the path ahead. She taught me that death, like duty, should be met with clear eyes and steady hands. On this day dedicated to honoring the fallen, I honor her quiet courage too!
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