This is a personal story about caring for a dying parent. The death of a parent is inevitable, but we don’t talk about it. So let’s do that. Let’s talk about it.
My name is Sher Bailey and I’m going to share with you what it feels like to care for a dying parent at the end of their life. This will be a painful post to write, and it may be painful for you to read. But it’s an important conversation to have with yourself before it happens. If you’ve already lost a parent, I encourage you to read on and share your personal experiences if you’d like.
Caring for a Dying Parent In Their Last Days
There is no guidebook here. There are no rules a dying parent has to abide by, and none for you either. Death is a very personal experience between the dying and their loved ones. This is my personal experience. I hope you can take something from it that will help when you walk this path.
Before I begin, I want you to know the last thing my mother said to me as she was moving from consciousness to unconsciousness. “I wish I’d been happier.”
Without question, those 5 words are some of the most painful, life-changing things anyone has ever said to me. I hope you’ll remember them, as I do, and take whatever action you need to take in your own life so that they won’t be your last.
Their death process is your experience, too.
Your parent is dying, but as you walk with them you’ll realize it’s almost as much about you as about them. Your parents brought you into this life and so as they leave it, you will undergo a change that gets to the very core of who you are. Be attentive. Listen to their stories. Commit their words to heart.
There will be things your parent says or does during this time that will come out of nowhere and break your heart. It could be a sweet story they remember, or it could be something completely honest and raw, like my Mother’s words. The filters we all try to have as we walk through life don’t matter to the dying. If you’re afraid you’ll forget, write them down.
You become the parent, and they the child.
I took care of her, changed her, bathed her, fed her. I stroked her forehead and calmed her anxiety. I gave her medicine and held bottles of water while she sipped.
The circle of life is never more evident as when you become the one your dying parent looks to for comfort. When they are afraid, you are there to comfort them. You’ll say a lot of things you’re not sure about, but you do the best you can. You can’t get this wrong if your choices come from a place of love.
You’ll find yourself watching them as they sleep.
Mother slept while I sat at her bedside. She liked knowing I was there, I could tell by the look in her eyes. Honestly, I was afraid to move for fear she’d wake up. It was as though I was back at my daughter’s crib in that respect.
Watching her chest move up and down was comforting to me. I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.
Their confusion will be hard.
There were strong meds which caused her confusion, but it was more than that. Mother’s mind was elsewhere. Sometimes she knew where she was, and others she didn’t. I went wherever her mind went. If she was in a garden, I went with her there. If she was talking to my brother who hadn’t yet arrived, I confirmed to her that he was in fact in the house. I never tried to correct her.
Your dying parent will move back and forth between this world and the next.
Dying is work, and Mother had a lot of work to do. I would see and hear her talking to people not meant for my eyes. And then she’d be present with me again, but only for brief interactions.
Sometimes she’d look in a particular part of the room and explain what was there. “There is a pretty lady with lights all around her, ” she told me. “There are lights everywhere!” she said as she waved her arms around to show me how many there were.
It becomes plain to see that a body is only a vessel.
As her body weakened and stopped functioning normally, I had to come to terms with what that looks like. When you sit with your parent as they are preparing for their journey, there are almost imperceivable little changes that happen to their physical body. And then suddenly, you see what’s happened in its entirety and it takes your breath a little.
You may have relationship issues to deal with.
Our dynamic was not good. I was a great disappointment to her, and it was easy for her to tell me so. I remember the last time she sat in her wheelchair. I put my head on her lap and sobbed harder than I’ve ever cried or seen anyone cry.
My sobs were guttural and uncontrollable, and she put her hand on my head to pat it as best she could. In the midst of my anguish, I cried out to her again and again, “I’m so sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry I was a bad daughter.”
I continue to struggle with this, to be honest. I wish I had a checklist of good things I’d done alongside the “bad” things. Truth is it probably wouldn’t matter. When your heart breaks, you can stitch it up. But, the scar will always be there.
When an estranged parent dies, they get to leave the demons that haunted them on Earth behind. Ours stay with us, always at the ready to come out and force remembering.
When your parent is dying, you realize you are not immortal.
I watched death come for her, settle in her room, and wait quietly until she was ready. It didn’t wrestle her life away from her. Sometimes I hoped my death would be like hers. When it got more challenging, I hoped it wouldn’t.
When a parent dies you can’t help but think of your own death someday. You wonder if this is how it will go for you, and what will happen with your own children if you have any. Will they be there with you? What can you do to make it less traumatic for them?
You’ll search for yourself in your dying parent’s face.
That’s what I did. Her nose was my nose. Her smile, crooked on one side so that lipstick never looked quite right, was my smile. Her small hands were my hands, although hers were painfully gnarled by arthritis and were adorned by a single ring she wore on her thumb.
I remembered being in church as a little girl, Mother holding my little fingers in hers as our Southern Baptist preacher railed against the devil from his pulpit. Her nails were always long and manicured and I loved running my fingers across them. I dreamed of the day I’d have long, red nails, too.
The exhaustion will be merciless.
My family and the hospice team were adamant that I eat and sleep, and they told me that as often as they could get the words out. That seemed impossibly ridiculous to me. How could I sleep? What if she looked over at the chair beside her bed and I wasn’t there? Even worse, what if she passed away while I was in bed?
I would tell you not to do what I did, but you will. People will want you to rest, and you should listen to them. But, you won’t. I finally made my husband promise he would sit by her bed, watching her chest rising and falling, so I could take a 3-hour nap. He was under strict instruction to wake me if the slightest thing changed. You should try and do the same.
Be still.
You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Your dying parent will feel your spirit beside them and know they are in a safe space and well-loved.
I spent time letting my eyes settle on everything about her. Her face, her smile, the way her hair looked. I knew it would be my last looks, my last chance to see her in life.
Afterward.
I did my best. That’s all I can say. You’ll do your best.
Remember, you were present. You were filled with love. You were patient. Still, it won’t feel like enough.
There is no shortcut to get through this pain. If you can get to a therapist, I encourage you to do it. Lean on your loved ones as much as possible. Accept help.
After two years I can still hear the way she said my name. I worry I won’t be able to hear it forever.
This is the obituary I wrote about my mother after she died. She’d want me to share it. Mother loved being the center of attention. 🙂 I hope you’ll tell me about your mom or dad. I really want to read about your journey.
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812 comments on “Caring for a Dying Parent In Their Last Days – a Personal Story”
I sat with my mother for the last 12 days of her life. She had lost all abilities to function as a result of Alzheimer’s disease. Those days she didnt eat or drink. She simply slept and layed in her bed. She didnt seem to be in pain. Hospice helped ensure she was comfortable. Like you, I didnt want to leave her. My children would beg me to go eat with them and i usually asked them to bring me something instead. Although she didnt speak more than a couple of words a day, if that, we had many conversations. We listened to a lot of music and I told her all about the things my family was doing every day. I slept in the chair at her bedside or I slept in her bed curled up next to her like when I was young. I dont regret any of it and I wouldn’t want to have missed being with her through it all. Many people will say it makes it harder to let go or that it isn’t healthy to sit with a dying parent for that long. I disagree completely! The only thing I would ask for is to hear her say I love you one more time. She hadn’t said it for a long time, and she didnt even acknowledge me by name in those last days. Even so, I know in my heart she knew it was me by her side and I felt her love for me as she held my hand. As she took her last breath, I was beside her, cradling her in my arms as much as possible without disturbing her comfort. That is what I will always remember. Not the frail body next to me, but the loving mom that I was lucky enough to have by my side.
Your story was so moving. I, along with my three sisters cared for our parents. My father first for a very short time and it was so enjoyable. He had cancer and went very quickly. The memories and stories he shared were regrettably not written down or taped. His death broke Mother’s heart and she slipped into a depression among other complications. She died a year later and those last months she talked constantly about seeing Daddy again in heaven. The day that she said she dreamed of Jesus and He was telling her He needed her with Him, I called my sisters and told them it was time… She would be leaving us. And she did. Alma Louise was the most courageous, loving, beautiful woman I have ever known and I am so proud she was my Momma. No regrets… Just miss her so….
I stayed with my dad and his caretakers for the last week of his life. If you had told me on Thursday that Dad would die on Sunday morning I would have called you a liar. Looking back I know he must have had pain, however he did not show it. The only pain he had was a UTI. Hospice ordered antibiotics the first time. Less than a week later it came back. Here’s where my pain really sets in. On Saturday he didn’t drink coffee, eat, or smoke. I knew the end was near. I called hospice again and she said all they could do was catherize him. I called my brother and he came. Both of us agreed to let them. I wish a million times I would not have let them. But we did. He begged me to take it out. By midnight I promised him in the morning they would take it out. To help him rest we gave him Ativan and 50 cc of morphine. There I said it. The dam morphine is the killer. I stayed awake listening to him beg. If I thought I wouldn’t have injured him I would have taken it out. About 3 in the morning I was watching the stripes on his shirt move. I fell asleep. Why did I close my eyes? I flew off the sofa at 6:30. The stripes were not moving. His tongue was slightly out his mouth. I screamed till the caretaker called my brother. He was there when I was born wide eyed. And with his last breath I fell asleep. I was numb at first. I felt nothing and I begged God to let me feel the pain. Be careful what you Sk for. It’s been 2 years, 9 months, and 7 days since he left this earth. A part of me did too.
I appreciate your words. I feel/felt the same. As I sat in a chair day and night for what seemed like eternity beside her bed, holding her hand, watching her chest go up and down, grasping for as much time as I could my faith in God grew. I had been her caregiver for over 10 years. I was her oldest and only daughter. Eight years later daddy and I went thru the same thing only we weren’t close. I thought it kinda weird that they were there when I was born and I was there when they died. And yes I can beat myself up if I allow it, of things I could’ve done better.
Wow. Thank you for sharing your story. I lost my mother on June 14, 2016. Your story reminded me oh so well of how it ended for me with my mom. I lost my dad 3 years earlier. He died on Mother’s Day, the 12th of May, 2013…was buried on the 17 and just missed his and my mom’s 68th wedding anniversary, which was on the 19th of May. I was there when my dad died of a heart attack and also when my mom suffered two blood vessels bursting in her brain. She wouldnt have been able to talk or eat, so hospice intervened. It took her 5 days from the stroke to die.
Everything you shared took be back to that moment. I think all mothers have the same stories about their daughters. It’s was amazing reading about you and your mom. All I can say is I am so grateful for the experience to be with my mom as she exited this life. It was peaceful. She was ready. So was I. Thanks again!!♡
Your story and the obituary was absolutely beautiful.
I lost my dad a year ago this past April. I would sit by his bed and hold his hand and watch tv in silence, talking took to much energy. We spoke with our eyes and we each understood the other. He would wait for me to come and feed him dinner until he stopped eating. I would bring my mom to visit him every Friday after she got her hair done. “His girls” were coming he told the staff back when he spoke. It came as no surprise that he passed on a Friday 10 days short of their 63rd wedding anniversary. I knew he was trying to make that date for her. That day I knew he was close so I left the room and told my mom, who suffers from Alzheimer’s, to tell him everything she wanted him to know And then tell him it was ok if he left this world. I had already promised I would take care of her the best I could. I walked back in the room and he sort of cleared his throat and died. Just like that I saw “him” leave his eyes and this world. I thought what a beautiful gift that was. I was honored he wanted us there.
Sam was the love of my life! He battled heart issues and cancer. When the cancer came back, he was determined that he would beat it again and we both thought he was going to win the battle—–when the pneumonia showed, he knew he was not going to win. I held his hand and told him how much I loved him, but I did not talk to him after that, he was in severe distress and I did not want him trying to make it easier for me—-there was nothing that would make it easier for me, so I just held his hand and let my tears fall. Sam waited until his brother came into the room, he nodded his head to Ken, looked back at me and passed in less than two minutes.
Mom was not the first one that I held hands with while they passed, but she was one of two of the best! Mom had hallucinations off and one during her last week of her life, that was devastating to me! She slipped into a coma two days before she passed on. I had just washed her face and put lotion on her hands and then held her hand as her breathing slowed, she looked so comfortable, but her breathing continued to slow down, my last words I shared with her was “Mom, it’s okay, I will be okay” and she took her last breath.
My mother went to the hospital for a simple infection then it turned into 4 different infections along with the starting of dimension I was called to the hospital at first she was awake but could not talk just looking at me then she went in a coma I was told it will be any time now I stayed with her every minute talked to her thanked her for being my mother sang to her loved ones came to say there goodbyes and say I love you but it was hard to be the one to be there for her last breath feeling her body go cold it was the longest and hardest 4 days of my life. My mother died 6-14-19
I’m going through this as I am writing this, I’m sorry for your loss. My mom is down to about seven breaths a minute, so it will be anytime now. Keep me in your prayers