The Last Lesson My Mother Taught Me

My mother taught my siblings and me many lessons. How to be self-confident and ambitious and how to persevere through trials - and there were plenty in our childhood. She and my father taught us to value family and education. We learned how to protect ourselves and our loved ones and my mother showed us, by example, that your children are the most important people in your life.  She demonstrated an amazing work ethic, while being dedicated to us and supportive of all our hopes and dreams.    

These valuable lessons extended into adulthood—my mom continued to be my sounding board through my college years and law school, through the challenges in establishing my career, through my marriage, raising my son, navigating my divorce and becoming a single mom with a demanding job. She was still there for me when I became a caregiver to her and my father.  My mother was the rock we relied on to get us through my father’s illness and death, and through all of my own challenges, she showed me how to be strong and to persevere.

All these lessons were important, but the last lesson she taught me was perhaps the most significant - my mother taught me not to be afraid to die. How does anyone teach such a lesson?  My mother did it by sharing her thoughts and experiences with me right up to the moment of her passing.

Please don’t misunderstand; I don’t want to die - at age 63 I look forward to enjoying more moments with my now adult son, my family, and my soon to be born grandchild. I want to see my son’s child walk, talk, go to school, read, and enjoy his parents—and to enjoy me, of course.  

I had feared death for so long, especially as my son was growing up - worrying about dying too soon - Who would take care of my son?  Would I be afraid?  Would I suffer?  Christianity teaches that there’s life beyond this one, and that those who go before us greet us on the other side.  I felt I believed it; I wanted to believe it; but now I believe it because I know that it’s all true.

My mother had been ill for a while, and we were caring for her in my home.  As her condition worsened, I noticed something peculiar. She seemed to be seeing all kinds of strange apparitions.  She’d stare up toward the ceiling and have what seemed to be conversations with whomever she perceived above her bed.  Was it the drugs, I wondered, a manifestation of her illness, or was it actually someone only she could see?  Most times we couldn’t understand what she was saying—much seemed like gibberish.  

One day she seemed particularly restless, her hands clawing at the blankets. I heard her talking about “the baby” she had lost under her covers. Years ago she had lost her second baby - a wound that probably never completely healed. I thought she might have been reliving that. Or, perhaps she was remembering my brother’s baby boy who had tragically died at just four days old. She spoke about my father as if she saw him, also her father and mother, some siblings, and an aunt my mother was close to who had passed several years before. Other than those isolated moments, we didn’t understand much.  However, one morning, she looked up and we heard her say, very clearly, “Why tomorrow?” I felt that she was being told that tomorrow would be the day of her passing.  

We knew the end was approaching, and that same day her nieces, nephews, and grandchildren gathered around her.  After they left, as I was escorting everyone out, my sister called. “Mary, Mom is asking for you.” I went to her bedside opposite my sister and took Mom’s hand. She looked peaceful, eyes uplifted, but when I touched her, she looked over and met my eyes. She seemed comfortable but there was something unwavering about her. Something resolute. Holding my gaze she said very plainly, “I’m sorry Mary.” I gently squeezed her hand and asked, “But why are you apologizing?” 

“I miss everyone,” she said clearly. I knew she was referring to her parents, siblings, and in-laws, who had all gone before her. She went on, “I want to go home.” 

She then slipped into a kind of trance, and her eyes became glazed.  She began to breathe more heavily, not in a distressed way, but almost with a sense of anticipation. A little breathless, but determined. “We’re in the woods, we’re in the woods,” she said.  “It’s beautiful.”  I asked her who was in the woods with her. Staring up at what none of us could see she just repeated, “It’s beautiful.”  I imagined her hallucinating that we were in the woods with her, and said, “It’s okay. We’re not lost, Mom,” and she responded, “Okay,” as if to reassure me.

Then, in the only moment I sensed any trepidation in her, she said, “I’m on the train…I want to get off.”  

“If you want to get off the train,” I said, “You can get off, but if you want to stay on the train, you can do that.”  Becoming calmer again she responded, “Okay.” 

I asked her where the train was going, and she replied, “Home.”  She made a few more comments about the train going home, and her last word was “Mama.”  She became still and peacefully passed.

I now understand that she wasn’t asking “Why tomorrow?” because she didn’t want to die the next day. I believe she was challenging the notion that she had to wait until the next day.  A determined woman, she obviously got her way, because she died the same day she’d asked that question. It was such a blessing to witness her being led through the vision of beautiful woods with either angels or loved ones guiding her, through the trees and on to the train “home.”  The strength she showed us during her life, she demonstrated in her death - challenging God with “Why tomorrow,” and convincing Him it had to be today instead.  

I was present when my father passed - he mentioned a few siblings’ names who had died before him. I was also present when a close cousin passed very silently. But what I saw while my mother died was unprecedented. She gave us the gift of her experience in real time.  You hear similar stories from those who have “near death” experiences, but I am not one of those people. However, my mom gave me the gift of her peaceful passing over without having to go through it myself.

It was the last lesson she taught me - how to die and how not to be afraid of the process.  Thus, any lingering doubt about this final journey is gone for me; I know we are indeed guided and consoled as we go “home” - and because of that, we never die alone.

- Mary Gambardella