The Last Time I Held Her Hand

Posted July 13, 2026 by Prairie Wife - 1 comment

A year ago today, July 13 2025, was the last time I held my mom’s hand.

I knew that the end was near.

I know my mom hung on so that my kids could say goodbye.

We practically ran into the hospice center after 8:00 pm on that Saturday night.

We had rushed there from Fargo, where we watched Cowgirl G compete, jumped into the truck, and pointed it East the second she was done.

My mother was no longer able to talk or acknowledge those around her, other than a seemingly random flutter or twitch of her hand. Yet I knew that she was still in there… hearing us and knowing that we were there… not only for her… but for my dad.

It was heartbreaking and awful to see my children’s reaction to my mom.

They had seen her with no hair and had FaceTimed her as often as she could handle over the past few months.

But to see her body wasted away and hear her labored breathing. To see the tumor that was taking her life, swollen and making her look like she was 9 months pregnant…that was a brutal shock I couldn’t fully prepare them for.

We cried together, and the Cowkids took turns saying goodbye.

It was incredibly hard, but I believe that it was necessary and good for them to have this chance.

They needed to see how lovingly we cared for her in what would prove to be her last hours. To know how important it is to leave nothing unsaid and to take the chances we can (no matter how uncomfortable or painful) to be there for those we love.

When we came by early the next morning I walked in the room and instantly knew that the end was near.

She wasn’t with us the same way she had been the night before.

I told my dad to go for a walk with the kids while I sat, held her hand, and listened to the pauses between breaths lengthen minute by minute.

My dad came back to be with her, and we left to run some errands.

15 minutes later, my dad called to say she was gone.

Grief is a strange beast.

Clawing and ripping its way out with no regard for what other pressing matters are at hand.

Lying quietly and hiding, giving you a false sense of security, only to leap out at the sound of a familiar song, or a smell that triggers a forgotten memory.

I’m finally able to make it through most of Mass without crying; there are even a few Sundays when I haven’t cried at all. I’ve given up trying to hide it from those around me and just ignore the long looks or stares.

For almost all of my childhood, my mom was the cantor at Mass, and for so many songs, I swear I can hear her voice singing along. Part of me wants to think she is and hopes that I truly am hearing her… but the more practical side knows it’s simply a trick of my memory and broken heart.

I went months at a time without seeing my mom after I moved to Wyoming at 17. And depending on the season of life, I wouldn’t talk to her sometimes for weeks at a time. But I knew she was there if I needed her (or even if I didn’t). In the same way that I know which way is East when I’m back home in Milwaukee, even if I can’t see the lake.

As soon as she was gone, my heart registered the absence and hasn’t felt the same since. I still reach for the phone to call her or make a mental note of something I need to tell her the next time we talk. I comfort myself with the idea that now she knows in real time, and is particularly thrilled to actually be there with us for all these moments rather than having to rely on posted pictures and a retelling during the next phone call.

The other day, I was talking to my dad (who has now moved to Wyoming and is settling in well), and after he hung up, I found myself reaching for the phone again, thinking, “Wait, you forgot to let me talk to Mom.”

That particular incident left me feeling off kilter for days.

This is not my first time dealing with the death of a loved one.

And, as far as things go this was a death that was full of diginty, blessings, and a chance to leave nothing unsaid…which I will always be grateful for.

What have I learned in the last year?

What to say to someone who has lost a parent (I’m so sorry) and what not to say (you’re a tough gal, I’m sure you’ll be fine).

I was already a pro at crying in public, but I’ve gotten even better at it.

That it’s okay to say I can’t be around people right now, and give myself permission to hide away for a bit. My own emotions over the last year have been so hard to control; I’ve found it overwhelming at times to navigate others’ needs and feelings.

To take joy in doing the things I know my mom would have loved hearing about, rather than feel sad or guilty.

To truly enjoy the time I have now with my dad, even if we stumble a bit here and there as we learn to navigate each other’s needs.

The art of the pause. To stop and listen when someone is sharing their pain with me, rather than jumping in to offer condolences or solutions.

To just sit and be still in the silence, letting the emotions have space.

My therapist asked what I was going to do to get through today, and I talked about my dad and what I thought he needed, and the kids…but couldn’t come up with what I wanted to do.

Other than being all alone by myself and just getting the hell through the day…

Which we all know isn’t realistic in my world.

But this. THIS is what I needed to do.

To write.

To share.

For me… getting the words out (and having a good, solid cry while doing it) is how I unburden my soul.

So, if you’ve made it this far…thank you.

Thank you for not turning away from my pain.

And if you understand it all too well…I’m sorry.

Categories: Life As It Happens, Prairie Life

Tags: , death, faith, grief, honesty, hope, loss, loss of a parent, support