And Now, Time to Rest

The turning of the winter solstice marks a time when light starts returning, leaving behind the shortest and darkest day of the year. It’s supposed to signify a turn toward the light.

On this day two years ago, I had spent the prior night in my own bed, the first time away since Erin had entered the hospital 2 ? weeks before. My husband and I decided I needed a break, so we swapped places and he stayed with Erin overnight.

Walking into her room that morning, I took one look at her face, and I knew something was different. Her eyes communicated a longing that I am unable to put into words. I knew in that moment she had something very important to tell me and I needed to pay attention.

The day ensued with the usual work to manage her symptoms and set goals that would eventually allow her to come home. This hospital stay was rough, with ever changing goals from day to day, sometimes even hour to hour, adjusting to Erin’s condition. Yet we remained steadfastly hopeful that her warrior spirit would carry her through this illness just like so many times before.

Around midnight after that very long day, the I/V delivering “life-saving” fluids had to be removed as it had become occluded.?As I gazed into Erin’s eyes, I sensed that she needed rest more than she needed fluids in that moment and requested to her nurses to replace the I/V in the morning rather than bothering her with a needle stick at this late hour.

Little did I know how that simple request would reveal so much. Not three hours after the I/V was removed, Erin’s breathing eased, the wheezing and coughing stopped. Her global pain and discomfort appeared to dissipate. She did not need suction. She was resting comfortably. Sleeping peacefully. I slept too.

I woke the next morning a bit disoriented at having spent a few hours in deep sleep despite the beeps and alarms all around us. The day before, Erin’s eyes communicated one thing; on this day, her eyes told me something very different.

I saw gratitude and peace rather than longing and fear in her eyes. I imagined that if she could talk, she would say, “Mom, I’m okay now. Thank you for all you did. Now I’m tired and I don’t want to fight anymore. Now, I want to rest.”

Erin fought for her life every day; her eyes were her shield; her vocalizations were her sword. Never had she communicated so clearly what she needed with her whole body than she did the morning after her I/V was removed. I was listening.

It was time to change what we hoped for. The day had come that we always knew would be here. Knowing, yet still unready. Scared, yet committed to listening to and advocating fiercely for her.

As a Grief Coach, I help my clients find ways forward in the face of unfixable problems. On this day, two years ago, I was solely a mom whose love for her very special daughter was made even more sacred in the knowing that holding onto her tighter was not what she wanted. ?

It was time to hope for rest. It was time to hope for comfort. It was time to hope for her pain to subside. It was time to move all other things out of the way. It was time to let go.

We met with the hospice team and made arrangements for her admission to hospice. We were blessed to be able to use “in-patient” hospice, meaning that she could stay in her bed, in her room, on this ward where everyone knew her and more importantly, loved her. Being here was like being with family; most of these nurses and doctors have known Erin since she was a baby. I knew that this last illness and decision to move to hospice deeply affected them as well.

Over the coming week, Christmas only a few days away, we nestled together with Erin. The hospital staff rounded up a couple cots so my husband and son could stay there as well.?The rest of the world outside her room ceased to exist. Some snow fell. Family and friends came. We talked and laughed. People brought us food. My hospice music comfort friends came and we sang to Erin. A friend snuck me in some wine. We played cards and read books. Nobody could pry me away from my little nest right next to her, smelling her hair and touching her soft skin.

Erin could not walk or talk yet she made herself clear. She lived and loved deeply. And now she was tired. She relied on us to help her with this final step in her short life. She was a warrior. She was a humble teacher. I will never be the same for having given birth to her. I will never be the same for having to let her go.

She died two days after Christmas. Letting go of Erin hurts in a way that words do not capture. And at the same time, letting go of Erin meant the end of her suffering, the end of her very long fight and a life well-lived.

Here is where sorrow and joy live together in this place of remembering, in this place of gratitude, in this place of discovery for who we are without her, who we will become because of her.

I continue to communicate silently with Erin just like I did while she was here, feeling her around me all the time, and bursting with pride at the lessons she left behind. Erin, may you rest in peace knowing your job here on Earth was well-done.

Erin Christine Moberly

10/5/2000 – 12/27/19

“It’s not the length of life, but the depth of life.”