She Was There When My Heart Began — I Was There When Hers Stopped

The past 65 days have been surreal.

My mom — who I had anticipated sharing so many stories about, who was woven into our daily rhythm — passed away just a few weeks ago. It was sudden… and not sudden at the same time.

We had moved to Texas together, as a family. We lived as a multi-generational family and it was her idea initially — a hopeful vision that sparked many conversations and ultimately led to all of us making the move. We landed here with expectations of fresh starts and family adventures . But within 30 days of arriving, she became fatally ill.

One minute she was working almost full time, driving herself to and from work, vibrant and sharp. The next, she was in a coma for ten days waking unable to move. She had become a paraplegic. She was on a trach and a PEG feeding tube, and required care so complex that a specialized nursing facility became our only option.

And just like that, our world tilted.

How do you navigate something like that?

Suddenly, I was thrown into the deep end of a world I knew nothing about — trying to make life-altering decisions for someone I love, while learning the ins and outs of the healthcare system. Medicare, Medicaid, long-term nursing vs. skilled care, social workers, care teams… and what the heck is an ombudsman?

It was a nightmare. But at the center of that nightmare — was my mom.

Three Years, Eight Months

She lived in that fragile limbo for three years and eight months. And through it all, somehow, she kept a smile on her face. She had hope. We all did in the beginning. Hope that maybe — just maybe — she’d have a breakthrough. That something would shift. That she might regain some mobility or independence.

But after the first 100 days, it became clear that physical therapy wasn’t progressing. Insurance didn’t cover alternative treatments. The system we had to rely on wasn’t designed for miracles.

And so… I watched her slowly unravel.

All while I navigated the endless legal and financial maze that is elder care in the U.S. I was her daughter — but I had to become her advocate, case manager, protector. And while I was fighting the system, I could see the light in her eyes slowly dimming.

She seldom complained.

She still smiled.

But I could see it — she was getting tired.

The Last Chapter

By the last week of March, her body was tired too. A recurring case of double pneumonia, paired with MRSA, was more than her immune system could manage. Antibiotics stopped working. Her body stopped responding. And by mid-April, I could see it in her eyes:

Her spirit had shifted.

Her will to stay had softened. Her soul was ready to go.

And I was the only one with her that day.

She was there when my heart began.

And I was there when hers stopped.

It was devastating.

And it was sacred.

Everything about her — even in death — was still beautiful.

It’s Never Really the End

As I mentioned earlier, I had so many stories I thought I’d be telling about my mother — and I still will. Because even though I didn’t fully recognize it while she was physically with us, she was giving me a deep and generous education the whole time. Sometimes we’re so close to a situation to see the gifts through the struggles.

I’m a spiritualist. I believe in signs. I believe in energy, in vibes, in frequency — and I believe the soul never truly leaves us. The very next day after she passed, I walked into the same backyard where she had first fallen ill. I began watering my garden full of tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, basil, oregano — all the things she herself had loved and grown. As I stood there, I heard a bird singing — unusually loud for that time of day. I turned, and there she was: a cardinal, perched on the rooftop, looking down at me and singing her heart out. And in that moment, I knew. That was my mother — free, joyful, and letting me know she was still with me. She was no longer bound by the limitations of those last difficult years. She was flying. She was singing. And she’s shown up for me many times since — swooping down to pick blueberries, checking to see how the tomatoes are doing… I feel her presence. She is here. Just in a different form now. Still generous. Still singing. Still Mom.

To my mom: thank you for everything — for loving us with your whole heart, and for teaching me to be light of spirit and lead with kindness and a smile, even when the world is falling apart. I will carry you in every breath.

Love Mom,

Davindia