Death is ugly

Eight years ago I lost my mom. It was an unexpected death that took us all by surprise. As she lay in a coma, the family posted at her side, each of consumed with independent thoughts, we hoped and prayed for what looked like a miracle. As it became increasingly obvious that we would not likely find a medical miracle, we discussed her life, the quality of it and if we should continue keeping her alive solely through medical equipment.

To me, the choice was simple, almost unemotional. I could not continue to look at my mom like this. With all the hoses and instruments erupting from her, a machine to control every essential function of life, could we even call this alive? Is this even living? It struck me that there was an in between time, where we are not alive, but our loved ones are not ready for us to be dead.

Medical technology has made it possible for us to appear to be alive, doing all the heavy lifting of our essential functions, but in reality, there is no life there. The miracle we prayed for never came, eventually, even with the technology and watchful care of the medical professionals, there was nothing left. She passed on her own.

The image of my mom lying there, heaving in and out with the rhythmic timing of an appliance, but otherwise motionless, is etched in the permanent archives of my mind. During that time, I jotted down my thoughts in a ‘poem’, which I have never really shared with anyone. But here it is, online for anyone to read.

Death’s putrid odor washed across the room
It was agonizingly slow and thorough in its attack
The walls were systematically stained with the dark purplish blood that had once coursed through her veins
The dimple marks on the wall filled in one by one, there was nothing we could do
We were grasped by deaths ugly hands

Please let us escape from this nightmare
There must be some mistake

She was too young
Too alert
She had so much more to do
She was not ready

I had so much more to say to her
I did not tell her that I loved her enough, how will she know?

Will I ever see her again?
What will she look like?
How can I talk to her?
I am not through yet
I am not ready for her to die

She lay there

A pile of flesh, swollen with the remains of life periodically pouring out her nose into a hospital bag

There was no escape from deaths lethal grasp

Decomposing before our eyes, bile pouring out, blood vessels rupturing
The once organized composition of life had collapsed and was rotting as we watched

Was she even alive? Was it just a vessel that remained? Why did we hook her up to all the machinery, heaving her lungs in and out, giving you a shred of hope that she might once again do that on her own?

It is so ugly, so shocking and horrific that you cannot stand to witness it. But neither can you look away.

Give to God what is God’s.
Sounds simple, but hope springs eternal.
Please God give me back my mother


As I read this, it reminds me of how dark that time was in my life. It’s something that all of us will eventually experience, and yet for each of us, it’s a unique experience. I wish I could say that after eight years, I feel better about it, but I don’t. I still don’t understand, but I have quit asking why. As I said in the poem, give to God what is God’s. In the end, we are all his children, and a death here on earth, is only here on earth. We are not dead to God. We are very much alive. The question of why is not one that I can answer, so I had to let it go. The question that remains for all of us is where we are at that time. Where will you spend your eternity?