Lessons from Dying

January 3 started like most Mondays.  Wake up.  Shower.  I was still on holiday break which meant long hours of video games interspersed with junk food and Christmas candy. Dad was working and his usual routine involved stopping by the hospital to visit his mom, a quick trip home for dinner and back to the hospital.
Only this time, as he walked through the door to grab dinner, the call came.  His mom was worse.  He'd just left her, but she'd taken a swift, downward spiral.
Suddenly, we all out the door and on our way.  The hospital is just a few short blocks, so there isn't a lot of time to decide what to do.  How do I react?  How do I feel about this? This is the woman who has made my life a living hell for many years.  The woman that is so despicably mean to me.  The woman, who admits in her final days, that she did try to ruin my parents marriage.
Am I glad?  Sad?  Resigned?  Four blocks to the hospital.  Four million thoughts on the way.
You can never really prepare for moments like those.  I try to keep two thoughts with me constantly: 1) Harm none & 2) How others treat you is their karma.  How you react is yours.
Once I reached Fran's room, I could see that she was dying.  The light around her was gray and dim.  I could feel other presences in the room.  I sat next to her and held her hand.  She was weak and could barely speak.  She wanted to say she was sorry.  Her lips could only mouth the words.  My dad sat on the other side and together we went through the business of helping my grandmother die.  How odd to have such a strangely intimate experience with someone who is almost a stranger to me.  But I did.  I told her that everything was okay.  That I loved her.  That things were well between us.  I told her that her family would be waiting for her and then she pointed to something/someone(s) that I could only feel.  And I knew that there was truth in that.  Eventually, words completely failed and our only contact was that of still holding hands.  It seemed to be enough.  I told her it was okay to go.  And to go in peace.
I sat there counting the seconds between breaths after that.  Six for a while, then eight.  Fifteen and then I realized that I had just kept counting and I was on 315.  I looked for the tiny pulse at her neck, but it was gone.  So very quietly, she slipped away.  How very unlike her. 
Fran has taught me many lessons.  Mostly by example of 'what not to do'. Don't be selfish.  Don't leave your 'I'm sorry's' until the end.  Don't leave telling people what you think of them (the good stuff, that is) until it's too late.  Let your children grow up to be happy.  Let them 'leave and cleave'.  Be diplomatic about what you say.  Don't hold grudges. Don't call people names.  Don't force your faith on anyone.  Don't live your life in misery.
Fran's biggest fear was hell or purgatory.  Live so that this isn't an option or concern.
Lastly, forgive.  And be compassionate.