We were all set to leave on holiday to visit my youngest nephew. Excitement filled the air, it was our first time visiting him, but there was also a touch of nervousness because of his fiery, no-filter nature.
That Thursday morning, I left home early for a medical procedure. I kissed my mom goodbye, unaware of how precious that moment would become. By the time I returned later that afternoon, still groggy and in pain, my nephew had arrived with a friend. My mom , as always, was stressed about making sure her guest was cared for. Despite barely being able to stand, I went straight into the kitchen to prepare dinner. She, on the other hand, busied herself in her sewing room, her sanctuary, the space she loved more than anywhere else.
That evening, as I packed for the trip, she lingered in the doorway of her sewing room, staring quietly. When I asked what was wrong, she simply said, “Nothing, I am just happy.” I gently led her to bed, finished the packing, and pushed through my own sleepless night in pain. By 4:30 a.m. we were up, bathed, prayed, and on our way.
During the drive, my mother lay tucked up in the back seat looking as cute as a button, while my nephew and I sat in front. The pain from my procedure was unbearable, but I kept going. A sandstorm forced us to cut short our breakfast stop, and when we finally arrived at our destination, we collapsed into bed. The holiday had begun.
That week was filled with laughter, pampering, and family moments. My mother was exhausted, but so happy. Then, on Saturday morning, everything shifted. My elder sister was suddenly joining us. Anger rose in me instantly. I knew how her presence would affect my mother. At first, Mom seemed happy to have both her daughters with her, but I noticed the change almost immediately, she became withdrawn, stopped eating, and looked distressed.
The day we were to return home, I found her lying on the bed in a way that terrified me, arms spread, legs dangling, eyes distant. When I jumped beside her, she startled and quickly assured me she was fine. But later, as we sat together, her head resting on my shoulder, she whispered, “My arms hurt, it feels like someone is ripping them out.” Then her legs. Then her chest.
Panic rose in me. I screamed for my nephew to bring pain relief, but soon her breathing worsened, and we had to nebulise her. For a moment, she seemed a little better. Then she placed her head back on my shoulder, whispered, “Mom loves you,” and suddenly jerked forward, gasping for air. The veins in her neck bulged, and I knew we had no time. We rushed her to the emergency centre.
In minutes, her body crashed, heart rate plummeting, blood pressure spiking, blood sugar soaring. Adrenaline drips, oxygen, machines, nothing seemed enough. The doctor said, look it is 50/50 and there is nothing more I can do for her here, so she had to be transferred to a bigger facility. In the ambulance, she slipped in and out of consciousness, and by the time we arrived, she was fully unconscious, dependent on machines.
Her diagnosis was pneumonia and kidney complications weeks prior, but in truth, her body was simply too tired to keep fighting. Still, I clung to hope. On Wednesday afternoon, she opened her eyes and smiled through the oxygen mask. My heart leapt, I thought we were turning a corner. I kissed her face over and over, whispering that she had to stay with me and I was waiting for her to get out that horrid bed. She looked at me and quietly said, “I do not think I am going to make it. I want to go home.”
Those words broke me.
Even as I fought to convince her otherwise, I knew deep down what was happening. Family tensions around her only added to the weight, but I tried to block it out, focusing on loving her with every ounce I had left to give. I asked for forgiveness for every argument, every sharp word, reminding her it all came from love, from fighting for her. She whispered back, “Mom knows. Mom loves you.”
That night, I kissed her goodnight not knowing it would be the last.
The next morning, the hospital called. Her condition was crashing. We rushed there, prayed over her, begged for a miracle. Machines kept her body alive, but her soul was already preparing to leave. The doctor gave me a few moments alone with her.
I lifted her head onto my arm, stroked her hair, kissed her face. Through tears I asked, “Mom, have you forgiven me?” She let out the faintest sound. I joked gently, “I know I am ugly, but please look at me one last time.” And she did, she opened her eye just slightly, smiled, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.
I told her, “If you want to be with your mom, I will not stop you. But who will be with me?” She made a soft sound, and I knew her answer.
So I held her tight, whispered, “I promise I will be okay. Do not fight anymore. Let go, Mom.”
She took her last faint breath in my arms, and her head fell softly against me. Peace washed over her face, and in that sacred moment, I knew GOD had honored me with the gift of being with her as she slipped away.
My mother, my soldier, my anchor, my everything, was gone.
Losing my mother was the most shattering moment of my life, yet I carry peace knowing she left this world in love, not in fear. Her final breath was in my arms, her last smile was for me, and her last words were filled with love. I choose to see that as GOD’s mercy, His way of reminding me that even in grief, there is grace.
Life will never be the same, but her presence lives on in me, in every prayer, every act of kindness, every strength I summon when the world feels too heavy. She was my home, my anchor, my safe place. And though she is gone, she left me with a love so deep that it will carry me through the rest of my days.
