My mom passed away on Saturday. We sat bedside in the hospital for a week and a half, and watched her drain away. We were all able to put a hand on her when she left us. A few months ago, my dad said, “everyday, she’s a little bit less.” And that was how it happened.

I haven’t processed it all yet. Sitting there for hours and hours, moving from the ER, to a shared room, and finally to a private room for the final days. Doordashing food and snacks, doing the crossword, reading, talking. Hours in the most unbelievably uncomfortable chairs, stuck sat. In the shared room, getting annoyed at her roommate (Joan) who listened to country music at top volume, then getting increasingly concerned for Joan when her health took a turn for a worse. Wondering how Joan was when we moved into a private room. Then having no room for worrying about anyone, because of being sad.

My dad mentioned that the ER had previously tried to prescribe a medication that suppresses nausea, and he indignantly declared, “Diane hasn’t been nauseated since 1972, when I held her hair back and we both were sick at the same time!” My sister and I both said, well, actually… And that’s how we all found out that both my sister Kirsten and I had independently gotten my mom accidentally drunk on wine on separate occasions.

She was a giggly drinker, and a giggly person in general. Cheerful and flightly, and basically not bothered by anything or anyone. You could not rain on this woman’s parade. She loved her family, but only remembered who the dogs were by the end. I found out in November that she didn’t know me, at her neurology appointment. She guessed I was a cousin. At her appointment in February, she confidently announced I was her best friend. I said, “I’ll take it!” and bragged to my sisters about it. I made sure to see her and bring my kids over as much as possible, because I knew our time was limited. She would sometimes ask me how my “people” were, if the kids weren’t with me. She didn’t know them, or why she liked us, just that she did. When we would walk in, she’d give us a slightly uncertain look, and I’d smile very big and say, “hi mom!” And I think she just caught herself from looking around for this mom person, and would smile back very sunnily and say “hi” back. And eventually she couldn’t say hi anymore, but she would smile, and she smiled until the end.

During the last two or three days, visiting hours didn’t apply to us, so my sisters and niece Emily and I would stay late. Bob would put the kids to bed and come join us. And we would play cards across mom’s hospital bed — 500 and spades — and listen to music and laugh. We laughed so much in the last few days, and it’s a bit because it’s what mom would want (she was so happy when the people around her were happy), and partly because she made us into the type of people who can be living the worst moments, and still able to laugh.

Donations requested for Roswell Park Cancer Center, where mom received treatment for her lung cancer, and was getting her ongoing treatment.