I’ve never seen death this close. Never been around it when it happens slowly, gradually. In fact, I’ve never been there at the actual moment of death. I always arrived late.

Until last week. My Mom, 80 years old, died on Wednesday, Nov. 13, 2024. I was there when she slipped away. It was hard, brutally hard, to see. But I’m glad I was present to hold Mom’s hand, to rub her leg, to let her feel my presence. I was on time.

She entered hospice care the previous week. The end was not a surprise; Mom had battled COPD for many years, and showed remarkable strength to fight it as long and hard as she did. But COPD remains undefeated.

Mom smoked for a long time, but in the days she started, the ravages of cigarettes weren’t as well known as they are now. She stopped decades ago, but the cigarettes would have their revenge, even if delayed awhile.

She was on oxygen full time, and her breathing became more and more labored. It must have been horrible for her, but she wasn’t a complainer by nature. I remember clearly, in the early days of her disease, when she told me that COPD slowly suffocates a person. I tried not to think of that too often.

Over the last month or so, Mom was in and out of the hospital, struggling to keep going. She was so tired of the routine, which was starting to become routine. When she came home the last time, the Friday before she died, she’d decided she wasn’t going back in the hospital (although she had nothing but praise for the hospital and staff).

She’d had enough. It was time to move on.

I saw her on Friday, shortly after coming home for the last time. She was in rough shape, but mostly lucid. She drank the entire Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino (decaf) I got her. Fraps were one of her very few indulgences.

I came back on Saturday, another Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino in hand. She had turned down a dark alley sometime in the evening. The change was shocking—much less awareness of everything around her, lacking even the energy to open her eyes when I got there.

She never touched the Frappuccino. I threw it out that night.

From Saturday through Wednesday afternoon, the decline was slow but sure. Hospice people came and went. People were in and out of the house, making it more full than it’s been in years.

My stepfather, who saved Mom from a terrible start in life, didn’t leave the house. Mom’s ex-sister-in-law, who never stopped treating her as a real sister, flew up from Florida at a moment’s notice. She was a nurse for years, with significant hospice experience. She took charge of the medical situation, and thank God for her.

My brother, who’s done so much for Mom over the years, was there of course, continuing to do everything he could.

Others came: grandchildren, friends from next door. I’m sure it was taxing for my stepfather, who tends to like things quiet. But he’s not a complainer either. He knew the importance of saying goodbyes.

One time, Eddie the dog, who became part of the family when my brother got married a year ago, jumped up on Mom’s bed and nuzzled next to her body. Her hand, voluntarily or not, reached out and stroked Eddie, who lay next to her a few moments. Her eyes weren’t open, she wasn’t conscious, but somehow she knew that Eddie was there.

Even Eddie wanted to say goodbye. And Mom wanted to say goodbye to Eddie.

Mom’s breathing got shallower, more difficult, more sporadic as the days spun out. I watched her stomach closely. The COPD made breathing an ordeal, as her lungs and stomach shuddered with each intake and exhale.

Mom would sometimes pull in discomfort at the ever-present nasal cannula in her nose, and the cords around her neck that held it in place. It seemed in a way as if she was defiantly throwing off the plastic shackles that clutched at her, refusing to submit to the tyranny of supplemental oxygen anymore.

My aunt and brother gave her liquid medicine under her tongue, as Mom could no longer swallow. There were multiple times over the next few days when we wondered if this was, finally, the end. Her breathing would pause for a time, and we wondered if we’d just witnessed the last one. But no, she’d start up again, and we’d allow ourselves to breathe again, too.

Her last breath came on Wednesday at 3:30 p.m. We were all around her—husband, sisters, sons, daughter-in-law. On Saturday and Sunday, when Mom was still able to occasionally recognize people, she said, numerous times, “this is love.” That was the one phrase she repeated over and over.

She was right.

Breathe easy, Mom. Breathe free.