A Week in Three Parts, Part 2

Just like we don't talk about the ugly part of death, I don’t think we talk enough about how complicated being a part of going through the death of another is.

You’re not yet in mourning, but you’re also not living life as usual. You’re in a strange holding pattern, a purgatory if you will, where nothing feels steady or real—especially yourself.

Part Two: The Bad

Three hotels in less than a week, an unstable stretch in an already stressful time. I had no idea how long I would be in the area where my mom lived, so my time became something open-ended. 

The first hotel was being renovated, and honestly, they should not have been renting out rooms. Exposed electrical cords, rust on every metal surface, no hot water, roaches on the floor, and noise beginning at 4 am from people starting their workday. Let's hear it for the trades workers, though, the ones willing to get up before dawn to do the hard jobs.

I didn’t sleep. I barely showered since the towels were stained. I sat on a bed that felt more like a futon, complete with the middle bar, and thought, “This is the room I'll have to come back to once my mom passes away.” I know it's trite. I know to some this will sound selfish. But I also know when my physical well-being suffers, I cannot take care of others. 

So, I moved from that location the morning after I checked in. 

The second hotel was the opposite—beautiful and comfortable accommodations and a full breakfast. But it was the worst customer service I’ve ever experienced. Payment issues, condescending and arrogant staff, and an astonishing lack of empathy, even after they were told why I was there. They put a hold on the wrong card, gave me the runaround, and then told me I’d have to check out unless I could guarantee the exact day of my mother’s death and when I'd be leaving.

Every one of the staff members I interacted with was literally making me fight to have a decent place to sleep while I was just fighting to hold myself together.

I probably didn't spend more than 10 hours at their hotel the entire four days of my reservation. I couldn't bear to leave my mom, and when I did, I would go to the room, shower, sleep for 2-3 hours, jolt awake, and head right back to be with her. 

The hardest part became this in-between. The still-alive-but-clearly-dying place where I had no idea how much longer I’d be there. How was I going to wash my clothes to get the stench of death out of them so I could keep wearing them? Do I just stay overnight with my mom since I'm scared she will die alone? How many more hours could I go without falling apart?

On the fourth day, when the hotel's GM demanded to know when I'd be checking out, I couldn't take any more. 

I wasn’t just exhausted. I was displaced and unsettled. It wasn't enough that I had to deal with the emotional devastation of watching my mom slowly die, I was literally grieving in motion. And when you're already running on nothing, the unkind and uncaring things done by people cut deeper.

So, I just packed my stuff and left, thinking I would sleep in the makeshift bed I had created in my mom's room out of two chairs. 

But, as I was sitting in her room five hours later, I knew I had to sleep in a bed for more than three hours. So I found one more hotel room to stay in. 

This third hotel brought relief I didn’t expect. Exceptionally clean. Staff who were not only kind but genuinely compassionate. Quiet hallways. A bed I could actually rest in. They even held the room in case I needed one more night. It was the first place all week that felt like safety.

But I still struggled. I discovered an invisible fight between grief and responsibility. 

Even though my attention was completely with my mom, I still had to show up—at least a little—for everything else. I worried that I was dropping the ball with my clients, even though they were fully supportive of whatever I needed to do. I worried that I wasn’t able to be there for my husband, my daughters, and especially my brothers, who were walking along the same path of grief with me. 

And as the hours turned into days, and then the days turned into a week, I also discovered I would not find the balance I sought.

I was never angry at my mom. But I was angry.

Angry that dementia was still controlling my mom's life through her death. Angry that I didn’t know what I was doing. Angry that I was thinking about laundry, and food, and a comfortable bed, and when would this ever end. And of course, angry at myself for feeling all of that.

And along with that? The guilt. The guilt of stepping away for even a moment. The guilt of not feeling every feeling the “right way,” at the “right time.” The guilt of not knowing how I should handle what came next.

And while I continued to sit with my mom, my grief just overwhelmed me. I was cursing at her brainstem, begging it to just let her go.

But her heartbeat stayed steady. Her breaths rhythmic and even. The “death rattle” had started in the early hours that morning, and by then, it had been making its presence known for almost 24 hours.

Around 9 p.m. that night was when I decided to go to the hotel. I had made up my mind that I had done all I could for my mom. She knew, for as long as her senses were aware, that I had been there for her. 

And if I was going to make it through the next phase, I needed to allow myself some time to be there for me. 

So, I knew that night I would be staying at the hotel until the next morning. I knew that I would allow myself to sleep longer than I had all week. And if my mom breathed her last when I wasn't there, that's how it was supposed to be. 

This was the disoriented part. The heavy, scattered, stretched-too-thin part of an already hard time of years of anticipatory grief.

That night, I talked with The Husband for a long time. And during our conversation, this was when we discovered what was happening with her body. 

This new knowledge provided me with the ability to let her go – fully let her go. 

I recognized that my mom, as I had known her for 50 years, was gone. What was still lingering was a system of functions that would persist until they had finished their fight for survival.

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Which brings me full circle to Part 3: The Good. Because even inside the stress and the grief, the anguish and the confusion, there were things that brought me happy tears, moments of pure “Mom,” and people who showed up in extraordinary ways. 

Grief and beauty balanced together unexpectedly. And moments happened that felt much like peace.