Dear Journal,
No, my mom never saw the message about her Stevie Nicks tickets.
No, my kids never got to call her to wish Nana a happy birthday.
But my family did make it up to stay near the hospital and be with my mom during her final hours—and for that, I am grateful.
The evening after we learned she was brain dead, our minds were flooded with questions. How? Why? What happens next? Later that night, my dad, my brothers, and I made a decision. Since she was otherwise healthy, we chose to explore organ donation. That was it for the night—followed by what felt like endless tears and no sleep.
I woke early the next morning so I could be with my mom when visiting hours began at 6 a.m., believing it would be her final day. My dad had stayed the night with her, so when I walked in, he filled me in. Around 1:30 a.m., Gift of Life had called him to say my mom had already registered as an organ donor during her last license renewal. None of us knew that had been her wish. Hearing that brought a strange mix of shock, relief, and pride—and it made the decision from the night before feel like it was guided by her.
Because she was a registered donor, they asked my dad if we would be willing to keep her on the ventilator for another day to allow time for testing and matching. My emotions surged all over again. I had arrived ready to say goodbye, and instead, we were given another day with her.
Saturday became a long day of waiting—trying to understand how we had arrived in this nightmare while also holding space for memories and laughter. My dad was intentional about making the room peaceful and comfortable for my mom. We avoided talking about death, just in case she could hear us. Instead, we shared stories, love, and all the good moments we never wanted to forget.
The kids came to visit that morning, and it was hard—especially for my oldest. I showed them pictures of a ventilator so they wouldn’t be scared. My mom looked peaceful, like she was sleeping. That’s what I told them. Still, it was overwhelming.
Earlier that week, the last thing my mom and I had talked about was my oldest. She was so proud that she was preparing to give a speech to run for Student Council. My mom had even told me she wanted to buy her flowers and asked me to pick out a bouquet. When I shared that story with my daughter at the hospital, she broke down. I will never forget that moment—speaking about my mom while standing beside her.
Writing this has been incredibly hard. This is my third time returning to finish it, each time with tears in my eyes.
We returned Sunday morning. Our immediate family spent most of the day with her—my dad, her children, my husband and kids, and my brother’s family. We told stories and reminisced. The kids laughed through the memories while the 2 youngest sat by moms legs, and I know my mom wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I hold onto the hope that she could hear us, even if she couldn’t truly hear us.
Then noon came. Time for the Honor Walk.
As we left her room, I remember seeing only a few people and thinking, This is it. But as we continued down the hallway, more people appeared—until we reached the ICU doors. The hallway was filled with hospital staff, other families we met, and visitors. People stood silently, praying, thanking us, thanking my mom for her gift of life.
I was sobbing—completely undone. I don’t even know how the rest of my family was holding up because I cried the entire walk. The hallway felt endless, filled with kindness and humanity, until we turned the final corner and reached the staff who would care for her until her last breath.
I will forever be grateful to everyone who lined that hallway for us. Forever thankful for healthcare workers who show up for families like ours during unimaginable moments. I am so proud of my mom for giving the gift of life to others—and at the same time, I am so angry that it had to be her.
Some days, the weight of these memories feels impossible to carry. Other days, writing them down feels like the only way to breathe. This chapter of our story is not one I ever wanted to tell, but it is one that deserves to be remembered—with honesty, with love, and with tenderness.
I don’t know what healing looks like yet. I only know that I will keep showing up, keep writing, and keep holding space for the grief and the gratitude to exist together. If you are walking a similar path, please know you are not alone. We carry these stories together, one breath, one memory, one moment at a time.
With love,
The Shattered & Glowing Mama