Goodbye

My mother was dying. We all knew it. But if you had asked her, you might not have been so sure.

Because everything—absolutely everything—was her last dying wish.

She wanted Applebee’s that night. “This might be my last dying wish,” she said, her eyes twinkling. We all laughed, knowing full well that tomorrow there would be another. And there was. Ice cream from Graeter’s. “Now this,” she declared between bites, “is really my last dying wish.”

We laughed so hard that night. My mom, frail but still full of mischief, recorded a message on my phone.

“I just want you to know how proud I am of you.”

Her voice was steady, warm, hers. I saved it.

A week later, my phone rang.

It was her.

But this time, her voice was weak. Different.

“It won’t be long now,” she said.

“I had to call. I had to say goodbye.”

My throat tightened. I wanted to be strong for her, but the tears betrayed me.

“I love you,” I said through sobs.

And then she was gone. Not yet in body, but in a way that mattered. The next call I got was from the hospice nurse.

“It’s time.”

I stayed on the phone as the nurse held it to her ear.

I could feel it. Jesus was there. Standing beside her. Ready.

“It’s okay, Mom.” I whispered. “You can go.”

And then she did.

I knew I would see her again.

But I missed her now.

And saying goodbye is one of the hardest things to do in life.

I gasped as the weight of it hit me. The air left my lungs. Tears spilled over in waves.

I knew I would see her again.

But I missed her now.

Saying goodbye is one of the hardest things to do in life.