Saying Goodbye to My Mother: A Journey of Love, Faith, and Care

Today I begin one of the most difficult trips of my life — to say goodbye to my mother. Our relationship has not always been easy, but it has always been rooted in deep love. Facing this final farewell is heartbreaking, yet it also feels like an important, necessary act of care and respect.

I have leaned on my faith throughout this process. In the midst of sorrow and uncertainty, my faith gives me strength and a sense of direction to do what must be done. Prayer has become a steady companion as I work through the emotions and decisions this situation requires.

The decision of whether to visit now or wait until her journey is over has weighed heavily on me. I prayed for guidance daily. Two of my siblings were able to get there and say their goodbyes — I am grateful for that. My oldest brother could not make the trip because of financial constraints, and that has been painful for our family. Sharing the situation with my adult children has been hard, too. My mother has always appeared so strong to them; she was a constant cheerleader and teacher in their lives, and telling them that she is fading has been wrenching.

My mother lived with type 1 diabetes for more than 59 years. Despite doing everything right — eating well, exercising, and maintaining a disciplined lifestyle — the disease was relentless. She was what doctors call a “brittle” diabetic, meaning her blood sugar was difficult to regulate. That challenge affected her health in ways that were often unpredictable and draining.

Beyond her medical struggles, she was a remarkable, self-made entrepreneur who rose from humble beginnings to succeed in a male-dominated industry. She founded and built two thriving businesses that touched many lives. She was also the kind of person who cared for others in small, meaningful ways: my Brownie leader, my brother’s den leader, and my children’s babysitter. Those roles left an imprint on our family and on the community around her.

When my father passed in 2012, I spent a year caring for my mother at home, trying to delay placement in a skilled care facility. Finding the right long-term care was a lengthy process involving research, visits, and conversations with my sister. Dementia is a cruel disease: it steals memories and cognitive function and puts a loved one at risk through confusion and wandering. With the level of care she needed and the safety concerns involved, I realized I was not the best person to provide the constant attention required.

Making the move to professional care was one of the toughest decisions I have faced as an adult child. It felt like failing at times, even though it was the most responsible choice for her safety and well-being. Caregiving often involves that painful recognition — loving someone enough to make decisions they might not understand or agree with because their needs exceed what family can safely provide.

Emotionally, situations like this strip away any pretense of composure. Grief arrives in waves: anger, sadness, relief, guilt. I find myself crying more than I expected and wanting to celebrate the woman she was rather than only mourning what is being lost. I want to honor her strength, her entrepreneurial spirit, and the countless ways she showed up for our family.

Now I travel with a heavy heart and steady prayers. I am going to see her, to hold space for the relationship we have shared, and to say the words I need to say. I do not want her to suffer any longer, and I want to remember her with gratitude for the life she lived and the lessons she taught.

This journey is heartbreaking, but it is also full of meaning. I will carry her love and legacy forward, guided by faith and the memories we made together. As I go, my prayers rise continually for comfort, peace, and the courage to walk this path with grace.