Circus Lights are Dimmed

Shortly before noon today, my dear beautiful mother, Carolyn Clem Braden, peacefully slipped from this world. She was surrounded by her loved ones and I am so honored to have been by her side holding her hand as she left me.

The last two weeks have been the most difficult I hope to ever have in my life. That was when we started nearing the end of our medical options. But she continued to fight. We gave her every chance to rally, but when I saw the chest x-ray from 10 days ago, I knew that she would not win this war. The doctors approached me last week about discontinuing her ventilator support, as this was the only thing keeping her alive. I could not bear the idea, feeling as though I was playing God with her life; deciding whether she was to live or die. After the awful job of sorting through my own feelings and recollecting the conversations I'd had with her about this very scenario, I knew what we needed to do. I was keeping her alive for my own selfish reasons. I didn't want the pain of making the decision. I wanted her to go at a time that she determined and take that burdensome decision away from me. I also had her last response ringing in my heart: she had told me she'd wanted to fight. I was so utterly conflicted by all of these things. But I remembered a conversation we had shortly after her diagnosis. We'd discussed quality of life vs. quantity. These last two weeks she'd been minimally responsive at best and without any quality whatsoever. The vent was the only thing keeping her alive. This is no way for anyone to live.

Earlier this week Gary started to inquire (again) about bringing her home to die. He called respiratory companies, case managers, doctors, any- and everyone to see if this was feasible. But it would be more trauma for her just to get her here and she would die immediately after arriving because her oxygen needs were much greater than anyone could provide. Again, I wanted her here for selfish reasons. I wanted her to be closer to me so I could be with her more.

After much introspection and a conversation with my father, I came to the conclusion that maybe my promise to fight for mom meant more than just fighting to keep her alive. Maybe it meant fighting for her; her wishes; what she would have wanted if she'd had a voice. I know that she would have hated to be languishing away in a hospital bed. She'd fought so hard against this thing, this wretched cancer and in the end it was her lungs that just weren't strong enough. She could never fathom how strong she really was. Such strength in such a little package.

My heart is totally broken, but I'm comforted in knowing that there is no more suffering for her. Gary, Sandra, Aunt Nell and myself were there. We spent time talking to her, praying, and reading sacred words to her. We had beautiful music playing. Music was such a large part of her life. For those of you who weren't lucky enough to know her, she was a accomplished musician. She started playing piano when she was 5 years old and played everything by ear. She also had an incredible singing voice, although I never got to hear her sing in her prime. She often joked that when she had me, she screamed so loud that she could never sing soprano again. But she did still sing.

We will start working on arrangements for her. She expressed her wish to be cremated. We will likely plan some sort of memorial service after the holiday's in Atlanta, her home town. We will reflect on her life and it will have the air of how she lived her life... Easy with a smile and a laugh.