The first 24

My beautiful mom passed away on the afternoon of March 1. We were all able to be there with her as she took her last breath. There is something really beautiful about being with someone that held you as you took your first breath for their last. It’s so tender and I don’t have the words for it. Surreal is a good place to start. 

The night my mom died I lay nestled between my sisters on a king size bed, safe and protected, and prayed for sleep. 

I kind of thought before she passed would be the hard part, but it turns out that her dying just broke a dam that released a flood of every emotion ever for everyone. One hard thing is that we are all in different stages of grief, kind of ping ponging around each other. 

We had spent a lot of time sitting and watching and waiting with her, and then that part was over. But then there was more waiting. Waiting for them to come pick her up, waiting for them to pick up the bed and other hospice equipment, waiting for her to be cremated and for her death certificate. So much waiting. 

The days following her death we went through every bookcase, cabinet, closet, drawer, and box in her home that she’d lived in for 33 years. Some of that we did while she was alive, and that made it easier. It was very emotional to find writings and gifts and parts of her I didn’t know. I couldn’t work on that for long, I’d start to feel cagey and antsy and needed lots of breaks. I’m so grateful we did so much of that together because it was really difficult and I can’t imagine doing it alone. 

I have been feeling like there are these two distinct perspectives I’m working through. One part is seeing this beautiful, tender, sacred time where we got to be with my mom as she progressed on in her mortal experience, and it is breathtakingly beautiful in an eternal perspective. The other part is the mortal one that saw my moms pain, fear, and frustration, that says I want my mommy here. I want to be able to call her and tell her every adorable or silly or awful thing my children do, those things that only a grandparent can truly appreciate. It’s the little child in me that is horrified that I’ll never get her again in mortality. 

So many people have ministered to us. They’ve brought meals, lent help and supplies, reached out, and sent messages. All of this buoyed us up so much, and I am so grateful. During the most difficult moments I have called down those blessings, and I felt them. 

There were 2 messages sent to me that especially resonated. 

“Oh Michelle, that is so intense. The Savior blesses those that mourn. A bunch of the beatitudes are conditional on behavior or whatever way He is asking us to be. But He says blessed are those that mourn. I think losing people we love has got to be one of the most emotionally intense mortal experiences.  Because of that He blesses all those that mourn, unconditionally. Nothing to do on your part but just to LET Him bless you, comfort you, heal you. All my love and thoughts to your whole family. Praying you can just get through these first hard periods of time. Hugs.”

And

“It's okay to be really sad and really hurting.  You really loved.  President Nelson and Hinckley speak of how their grief was immobilizing after the loss of their wives.  I think the same can be true after the loss of a parent or any loved one.

I'm so glad you were able to be together and have this sacred time with your family.  Give yourself lots and lots of time and grace as you navigate this experience.  Coming home will be wonderful and challenging.  

Love, prayers and safe travels.”

I am so ready to be home, and also sad to leave El Paso. My mom was alive when I arrived, and now she’s not. It means leaving the 5 other people in the world that lost their mom with me. It’s leaving her home without an owner. 

It’s the beginning a new season of grief. I’m not sure how it looks or how I’ll feel, or how I’m supposed to feel. I do know I’m grateful every day for the healing power of the atonement. For now, I will just know that and take each hour as it comes.