You died at home on a Tuesday morning.

The prodigal brother called me in tears. “Moms dead”… Surely I had misheard. What? “MOMS DEAD!”
He was clearly losing it, and I needed to be there ASAP. Keep things together. Be the strong one. Take care of business. Dad in the hospital with half a leg just removed. Someone responsible had to be there. — I’m on my way —

I made myself go in and see you. Say my goodbyes then and there. If I could handle that, I could surely handle the funeral. After all the initial formalities came the first hard part. Telling Dad. How do we get across to someone who’s laying in a hospital bed medicated. In and out with your words and mental state.

That was rough. Telling dad. The look of disbelief. The same reaction I had. Surely he had not heard correctly. When we finally get him to grasp what we are saying, he crumbles. Mentally crumbles. We do what we can to console you. Take care of you. Knowing full well that you won’t be able to see your wife off. You are confined to a hospital bed with an aging body that is betraying you.

We had your funeral service on a Saturday afternoon.

All went as well as it could. More being strong. Shaking hands and hugs from a line of people. For hours we stood there. Doing what is expected of us. What is required. All those little details.

The morning of the funeral, I talked to dad. Matters of business that needed attended. We did not mention mom or the funeral after telling you. It was to remain unsaid. No more stress on you. You’d had enough. That day you took a major turn for the worse. That evening we had to make decisions. Hard decisions. Full life support, or let you go. Little did we know it would only be hours later.

You died in the hospital Sunday morning.