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A short except from Accelerate Your Mojo, the book, about Mom's transition to from this world to the next:
Mom exhaled for the last time on October 19th, in the year 1990. Her body was a barely distinguishable ripple in the bedding. She's become a permanent fixture in my brother's living room in only a few weeks.
Her outward focus, and attention to life's details, diminished. A mere shadow of her former self, she lay in wait once the diagnosis was given.
Mom was not a large person; five foot tall on a good day. She was wasting away to nothing, disintegrating before my very eyes. The body does interesting things when the spirit's powerful focus is withdrawn from the physical apparatus.
She waited until I walked out of the room before fully transitioning. I'd read the dying often wait until the family members leave the room. When the kids aren't ready to let go, it makes the dying parent's transition more difficult.
The ill parent holds on longer than necessary in an attempt to ally the children's grief, pushing against the inevitable. They patiently wait for the family members who are having the hardest time saying goodbye to learn the room.
Then, swoosh; they seamlessly reemerge into the fullness of who they really are.
Memories leading up to the moment of Mom's transition are hazy. I'd been consumed with unrelenting fear and sadness for weeks. I was tired and scared, wondering how I'd make it on my own. Dad was around, willing to help out with anything I needed such as money and assistance, but it wasn't the same. With Mom gone, I felt more alone in the world than ever.
It's a strange experience to watch your parent transition. The veil between you, and your own death, somehow thins.
As it happens for many adults, my childhood memories are fading. Instead of specific details, what I remember most prominently was the way my childhood felt. Specifically between the ages ten and twenty.
The best description I can find for this time period is a quietly looming resentment, and sadness, fluttering in the background.
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Thank you, Mom, for helping me write this story from the great beyond and giving me permission to say it, in the way only I could: honestly and from my heart. I love you, forever.