When my mother was in her 80s, she had a devastating stroke. The doctors told us—my brother, sister, and I—that she had no hope of recovering a meaningful life.

For weeks, we sat vigil by her bedside in the ICU hoping for a miracle that never came. On the sad day that we decided to withdraw life support, we brought our children (six grandchildren in all) to the hospital to say goodbye.

The nurses removed her breathing tube and we waited. Only soft sniffles and the occasional stifled sob broke the heavy silence. But our mother’s heart beat on.

We began telling each other stories of Mom and Grammy. My older siblings related their memories of the flood our home had weathered—an event that happened before I was born. The grandchildren recalled being taught how to play gin rummy or crotchet an afghan square or how to drop a stream of bubbling hot fudge into a cup of cold water to check for the soft ball stage of doneness.

We ordered a takeout lunch. Then takeout dinner. By 11 pm and more than twelve hours off the ventilator, it was clear to us that our mother was not going to die that day. Our original plan had been for all of us to be with her when she passed. But as the children started to get cranky or nod off, we made a new plan. One of us adult children would stay with her at all times until she passed. I was elected (or volunteered; I can’t remember which) to stay since I was the one in the medical field and also lived closest.

But as we bundled kids into coats and hugged each other goodbye, our mother’s heartbeat suddenly started to fall. To the 70s at first. Then 50s. Then 30s. We instinctively moved closer. We touched her shoulder, her face, her hair. We held hands with her and with each other. The sobs and sniffles that had filled the room before were gone. Now it was filled with only love.

The story we tell ourselves is this: My mother wanted us all to be together with her as she passed. She enjoyed listening to our stories. She relished our laughter.........

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