It was an afternoon in June when my siblings and I received word that her condition had suddenly changed, and we hurried to her side. She’d been pretty spunky two nights before, when I’d last seen her, so it was shocking to find her completely unresponsive. We all surrounded Mother’s bed as my brother gave her a final priesthood blessing.
We expected her to pass that night, but she didn’t. All that night and the next day she hung on. We wondered what she was waiting for.
I volunteered to take the next night shift. Mother’s nurses told us to talk to her because she could likely hear us. So after everyone else had left, and it was just the two of us, I told Mother again how much I loved her. Then, through tears, I thanked her for one unselfish act after another that she’d done for us. About then I sensed for the first time that my father was there. And with that, I found myself saying something I hadn’t expected.
“Mother,” I said, “you have given your life to us. You have put our needs ahead of your own again and again. But your body is worn out. There isn’t anything else you can do for your family here. But on the other side of the veil, with Dad, you’ll be able to help us in countless ways. Mom, I think it’s time for you to go.”
Within literally moments, Mother’s breathing changed. When a nurse walked in the room a few minutes later, I asked her if what I was hearing was the “death rattle.” She nodded, and that night I held Mother’s hand as she made her final, labored attempts to breathe. She passed away early the next morning.