by Margot Mifflin, New York Times, 30 September 2015
Dr Mifflin is a professor of English at the City University of New York. In this opinion piece for the New York Times she reflects on the death of her mother.
Her death went well, I told the few friends who I knew would understand my meaning: She was not in pain, she was conscious until the day before she died, she was at home, my sister and I were with her. It was a peak experience, revelatory and meaningful — something I wouldn’t have traded for anything — except her life.
No one tells you how discreetly death can make its catch, or how languorously. It rolls in like a low wave: It’s moving, and it’s not; she’s there, afloat, and she’s not; it simultaneously sluices through her and tugs her in its tide for hours, until she’s silently dispelled by its force.
On the night she died, five or 10 minutes after she stopped breathing, I held her in my arms and she was still there. An hour later, she was not. But she hadn’t been taken. I’m certain she had left, and seeing her go gave me the courage to think that I could do this myself, without fear.
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