My mother died in slow motion, giving us an incredible gift

BAY CITY — A few weeks after my dad died, my mom started seeing things.

"I’m gonna tell you something but I don’t want you to think I’m going nuts,” she told me last November. “I’m having visions.”

Almost every day, she was visited by a boy and a girl in her one-bedroom apartment at an assisted living center.

“Do they say anything?” I asked.

“Never,” she said.

“Who do you think it is?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said with no concern.

She was sitting in her usual spot — in front of the TV in a red recliner with a motorized lift that helped her stand up. Her body was weak. She had a leg wound that wouldn’t go away, could barely stand and suffered from horrible migraines. Her hands shook, her heart was failing and she was in hospice.

But her mind was still relatively strong.

“It’s like it’s one of my kids and they just don’t know where to go,” she said. “That's the kind of vibe I get from them. Like they are looking at me and saying, ‘Where do we go from here?’”

I found myself doing searches on Google:

Dying person and visions.

Hallucinations and dementia.

As far as I could find, visions are not uncommon for someone who is dying, and there are some possible scientific explanations. Maybe, it’s a lack of oxygen or release of endorphins; or maybe, it’s some kind of psychological coping mechanism; or maybe, it was a sign that her mind was slipping.

Or, yes, maybe, it was something else.

Something spiritual.

We don’t talk about this very often — some of the wild things you experience when a loved one is dying — but maybe we should. Because it affects all of us in different ways.

As my mother went through the dying process, I learned so many things — things I wish I would have known weeks ago. So, I am sharing them now in hopes it might help somebody else.

No matter what brought these children to my mother, I didn’t dismiss them. Didn’t question her. Didn’t make fun of her — but I did ask her to ask them for the lottery numbers on more than one occasion.

As it turned out, my mother held on for months — if nothing else, she was incredibly stubborn.

She reached her 90^th birthday on April 2. She had a horrible spell that day, collapsing in the bathroom and taking several minutes to recover, a sight we would grow used to, but then snapped out of it and ate several pieces of cake.

A few weeks later, she made it to Detroit for my daughter’s wedding at the top of the RenCen. My mother was “dolled up” — as she would say — and I pulled her wheelchair onto the dance floor. She even had a splash of some “booze,” although we watered it down.

In June, I drove to Bay City, picked her up and took her to my daughter-in-law’s baby shower.

“Do you want to know what the baby is?” I asked my mother. “I know the sex and the first name.”

“No, I want to be surprised,” she said.

I smiled. Clearly, she wasn’t ready to let go.

But as her body failed — a hospice worker noticed the sparkle had left her eyes — and the visions became more elaborate. She started hearing “the most beautiful music” and the two children were joined by my deceased father.

My mother and father had been married 69 years.

These visions did not scare her like some kind of campfire ghost story. There was a sweetness to it, something romantic, especially when my mother said that my dad climbed into bed with her and rested against her cheek.

The visions gave her comfort and that’s all that mattered to me.

Slipping away

Over the last year, I drove to Bay City countless times to see her, usually bringing her a strawberry shake with whipped cream from McDonald’s — her favorite. We’d visit and then I’d drive home, grieving every time, thinking about the funeral, preparing in my mind.

Sometimes, she’d be remarkably coherent. On other days, she would sleep or stay in bed from the migraines and not open her eyes the entire visit.

On Saturday, Aug. 12, my sister Holly and I were visiting my mother but we couldn’t wake her up.

“We are so lucky,” I said. “She is not in pain like dad was. She still has her mind. We are just lucky she’s not in pain.”

The next day, my mother fell getting out of bed — it’s always a fall, isn’t it?

She was found on the ground in excruciating pain. A hospice nurse got on the carpet and laid with her until the morphine kicked in so they could lift her back on the bed.

That night, a nurse told my sister: “She is actively passing.”

So, we started a bedside vigil, and the next five days felt like five years.

My sister, brother Dave and I sat by her bed, with a timer running, and we would count her breaths per minute.

One night, it dropped down to four breaths a minute, and it seemed as if the end was near. Later, a nurse explained that my mother was probably “stomach” breathing, not taking full chest breaths.

So, whenever her breathing slowed, we learned to lift the blanket to see if her stomach was moving.

After the fall, my mother never regained consciousness and I found myself searching on Google: How long can somebody live without food or water?   

The days became a blur and a hospice nurse pulled me aside: “Your sister hasn’t said goodbye to your mother. Your mom is hanging on for her. Your assignment is to talk to her about it.”

How did the hospice worker know that?

Because they are angels on earth and just smarter than the rest of us.

So, I brought it up to my sister and she broke into tears. It was true. She just couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye.

I found an excuse to leave the room, and Holly talked to my mom.

But saying it is one thing.

And truly believing it is another.

Lessons I learned

Every time it seemed as if my mom was going to pass — and we said another round of goodbyes — she bounced back.

Figures. She always loved a party and was always the last to leave.

She went through an “agitation” phase, and a nurse explained that was a sign that she was nearing death.

Her breathing changed — sometimes shallow, other times a labored gasp — another sign.

Her heart rate skyrocketed — that’s another sign, we were told. Her body was fighting to live. But, we were told, it would come down soon. And then, it did.

Her blood pressure dropped.

Her temperature suddenly spiked.

We were told that her skin would change color when the end was near, developing a blotchy, red-purplish marbling of the skin, starting at the feet and traveling up the legs. So we constantly picked up her blankets and looked at the color of her feet but didn’t notice a change.

We would listen to her breathing — waiting for the “death rattle” — and it came once, but then disappeared.

It was all so confusing and exhausting and full of uncertainties.

“Any idea how much time we have left?” we asked.

And the hospice nurses all said the same thing: “Everybody is different.”

My brother, sister, and I left her room and started working on her obituary. My mother loved to golf and paint and travel to Arizona and sew and play the slots at the casino and camp — we used to spend summers at the campground in Tawas.

At one point, she lived in Washington D.C., working as an administrative assistant for some federal agency.

But as her memory became jumbled, she had told a nursing home worker: “I was in the CIA.”

Not sure I believe it.

But then, she told a worker: “I used to go skinny dipping.”

Which I do believe.

Crazy, the things you can learn about your mother as she’s dying.

So many surprises

Even though my mother was hard of hearing and wasn’t wearing her hearing aids, hospice workers told us that the sense of hearing is magnified near death.

How they know that, I don’t know. But I believe it.

I was alone in the room with her, during another time when she seemed to be slipping quickly away. She was barely breathing and she didn’t appear to be conscious, but I said goodbye and thanked her and her head popped up and then fell back down gently. It was the first time she had moved in several hours and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Freaky doesn’t begin to describe it. I mean, she didn't budge during a piercing fire alarm but she heard my whisper? Amazing.

For a couple of nights, I slept on a mat on the floor, my brother on the couch, my sister on a recliner.

Early one morning, I walked into the hallway and saw a nursing home worker.

“This morning, I walked in and looked at her and thought she was gone,” he said. “Then, she took a big gasp.”

His eyes were wide. My mom was even surprising the experienced workers who deal with death all the time.

“She’s like Deadpool,” I said. “She’s gonna outlive us all.”

She was down to probably 75 pounds, just a shell of herself. I’d stare at her in the bed, counting her breaths, looking at her chapped lips, hanging on every movement. Waiting. Just waiting. She was unresponsive. Her eyes were open but I don’t think she could see us, and she didn't eat or drink for five days and I thought: “This is no way to live. This isn’t her anymore. She’s already gone.”

I was ready for her to die, and that gave me a strange twang of guilt. I wasn’t wishing for her death but I wanted her suffering to end — and maybe that sounds like I’m splitting hairs and doing a strange bit of mental gymnastics. But it’s the truth.

Finally, after another crazy night — after being told to leave the room at 3 a.m. to walk the hallways, in case she was waiting to die alone, although that even didn’t work — her breathing was shallow but consistent.

My sister and I stood in her room, looking at her, marveling at her, and neither one of us had slept in days.

“I can’t take this anymore,” I said. “I have nothing left.”

“I’m done,” my sister said.

All of us had finally come to grips with it. We were all exhausted and drained.

I went to the bathroom and took a shower.

When I came out, my sister was holding her phone, the timer running. My mom hadn’t taken a breath in 75 seconds.

“Should we wake Dave?” Holly asked.

“I’ve seen this movie four times,” I said. “Let’s wait.”

So we did.

We waited another minute and I woke him up and we stared at her. We lifted the sheets and checked for stomach breathing — nothing.

We checked her feet, looking for a color change but there was nothing.

Finally, the nursing home workers came in. “We think — “ I said.

Her face was grey, and they couldn’t find a pulse. They agreed. She was gone.

A hospice worker came in to make it official. She had to listen through a stethoscope for 5 minutes to call it. After a moment, the hospice worker seemed to jerk: She heard two more heartbeats.

Of course. You’ve gotta be freakin’ kidding me.

We laughed — we could only laugh — stubborn doesn’t even begin to describe my mother. Her strength to live was amazing.

But the hospice worker checked again and pronounced her dead.

“I’m gonna leave you now to say your final goodbyes,” the hospice worker said. “Take as much time as you need.”

I almost laughed.

There was nothing left to say. I had said goodbye at least four times. I had spent the last year in pre-grief. I was drained and exhausted.

In the hallway, I told the hospice worker about the visions of the children and she asked the craziest question: “Did your mother have miscarriages?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I never asked. It never occurred to me.”

“Your mother has been preparing you for this for a year,” she said. “That’s why she told you about the visions.”

Later, when I told this story to a cousin, he said: “I know for a fact your mother had a miscarriage.”

He told me a story of how he saw my mother come home from the hospital, and everyone was crying.

“It’s the first time I ever saw our grandmother cry,” he said. “Your mother said she lost somebody really close to her. But nobody died at that time.”

I walked away absolutely stunned.

MORE SEIDEL: One last magical day with my dad, a huge sports fan who planned everything, even in death

A ray of hope

Compared to the absolute agony of watching her die, the visitation and funeral were easy, filled with laughs and jokes and far too many inappropriate comments.

Now, after having a few days to process everything, I think my mother died in slow motion for a reason. She was guiding us through it, refusing to die until we were ready.

It was her final act. Her final lesson.

She had given us the gift of acceptance.

The freedom to move on.

Two days after the funeral, something truly magical happened. My son and daughter-in-law had a baby girl.

My first grandchild.

She’s healthy and strong and a bundle of joy.

She stares at the lights — full of so much curiosity — and her eyes just sparkle.

I might be biased, but she’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

It's like a gift from heaven.

Contact Jeff Seidel: jseidel@freepress.com. Follow him on Twitter @seideljeff. To read his recent columns, go to www.freep.com/sports/jeff-seidel.

This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Seidel: My mother died in slow motion, giving us an incredible gift