How one summer can change your world

I remember that May 29 was a beautiful night. School had just gotten out for the year, there was a car race and a baseball tournament in town for the weekend, and summer was at its glorious dawn.

I was eating supper at Perkins when the call came. It was my mom. She had not been feeling well for several weeks, and she confirmed family speculation when she told me it was not just a cold or a stomach bug that was ailing her. It was cancer. In the days that followed, we would learn that the cancer, which had started in her breast, had already spread into the bone and the abdominal area, perhaps into other organs as well.

Of course, the prognosis was not good. Doctors were hesitant to speculate on how much time she had, but it became pretty obvious pretty quick that we were dealing in months, not years.

It turned out to be 55 days. Just after dawn on July 23 — 37 years to the day that I came into this world — Cathy Weld passed from it. She was 67.

I will forever remember her final 24 hours. We already knew my mom’s condition was rapidly deteriorating when my sister called about 5:30 a.m. on the 22nd. The nurses had said she was likely in her final 24 hours. An hour later, when told she had a son eight-plus hours away, the nurses speculated that she likely would not last that long.

My wife and I raced to complete our daily obligations, packed a couple of suitcases, loaded the kids in the van and headed north. It was after 10 p.m. when we arrived, and Mom was still hanging in there. She was completely unresponsive, and the telltale “death rattle” could be heard every time she took a breath.

The vigil continued throughout the night — a night of prayers and tears and introspection. With every labored breath, the end seemed to be upon us, only to be followed by another labored breath. As dawn broke, the breathing became shallower and shallower, and quieter and quieter, until there was no more. Around 6:20 a.m., Mom took her last breath, and then it was over.

Knowing your mom is going to die — and then watching it happen — is no joyous ordeal, to be sure. The weeks leading up to this have been characterized by a growing sense of emptiness that has only been intensified by the ultimate loss of life. I’ve made several trips to Iowa this summer, and while I’m grateful for the time I got to spent with my mom before she died, it doesn’t begin to fill the void that her death has left.

Though I spent the night at my mother’s side in her final hours, I wasn’t in the room when she took her final breath. I had stepped outside for a short break. I’ve thought about this a lot since then, and I can only conclude that this was a gift my mom gave me. For whatever reason, it was meant to be that I didn’t see my mom die. My sister and father were on hand, but it was moments later that I received the news.

This is but one of several gifts my mom has left me — perhaps inadvertently — with her passing. In her death I have learned the importance of being vigilant about one’s health, that being healthy is not something that just happens automatically. I’ve learned that it’s important to reach out to others when you’re challenged with a foe you can’t defeat on your own. And I’ve learned the value in being sympathetic and empathetic with others who are enduring a loss. If I can take something positive out of the loss of my mom, I hope it is in these morsels of wisdom.

But no amount of wisdom can change the fact that the world is a little bit lonelier today. It is an emptier place. The woman who rocked me in her arms, put band-aids on my knee, packed countless school lunches, helped make my dorm room livable and was always my greatest source of advice when my kids were sick, is no longer with us. She’s gone. And all that’s left is a haze of grief that follows me everywhere I go.

At last June’s Relay for Life — the local fundraiser for the American Cancer Society — I purchased a luminary “in honor” of my mom. Next year, I will purchase one in her memory. It’s a way of coping — one of many small gestures that helps fill the void.

That void will likely never be filled. But it gives me comfort to know that she is no longer suffering. And every time a bird flitters past me in a most peculiar way, or when the breeze blows ever so gently in my face, I will know it could be my mom passing by, just to say hello, or to look after me as she did so often in life. There’s a new angel in heaven today, and it’s good to know she’s on my side.