Love eased my mother to a good passing

But then it was over. And early on a Saturday morning with a sad-voiced yellow bird caroling outside her bedroom window, my 91-year-old mother’s life journey ended.

I’m not sure exactly how to announce her death. The term "passing" seems awkward. The most direct way of stating it is "my mother died a week ago Saturday." But it’s hard to say.

My husband suggested I wait and write about the process of my mother’s dying later in the summer after I am farther from my grief, but I cannot seem to do that. I am compelled to write about what I’m choosing to call "the good death."

A good death is what we all hope to have. "Quietly, in my sleep," is the way it’s most frequently described. Or "I want to die doing what I love." My mother embraced her dying and said early in the week of her death that she wanted to die peacefully, surrounded by her family. And despite everything that might seem to work against that happening — children at long distances, the precarious state of her health, her extraordinary physical fragility — she did.

Death, good or otherwise, is a process. It comes in its own time and own way and is as personal as the individual experiencing it. It should not happen in a hospital. Hospitals serve many important purposes, but having one’s life end there — I would rather not. Dying should take place in a home with familiar possessions and people around you, in an atmosphere of complete nurturing.

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Death has distinct stages. There’s withdrawal, the going inside oneself. There’s disorientation. Physical changes occur and are better understood if you know what to expect. I relied on a pamphlet-book, "Gone From My Sight: The Dying Experience," to help me with the unexpected. I read and reread those pages while sitting at my mother’s bedside.

More importantly, though, I read the Bible verses she loved and tended to the little things she desired. I learned the importance of those little things. For instance, the satisfaction received from swabs of water on a tiny foam stick when your mouth is dry and sour and the joy of a well-given bed bath.

I have new respect for what morphine does to alleviate pain and hand massages do to relieve tension. When death is occurring, I know "thank you" is the best prayer you can offer and "I love you" the most important words you can say.

I’ve learned we labor in leaving this world in the same way we labored to enter it. I know a simple gesture of squeezed hand or a mouthed acknowledgment, whether observed or experienced, is memorable beyond words. I know that faith gives you strength.

Death is the great common denominator, but it’s not really common at all. It’s hallowed ground.

Sharon Johnson is an assistant professor in family and community development at OSU Extension and a member of the Senior Advisory Council. Reach her at s.johnson@oregonstate.edu.