Pulling the plug


It’s a term we have all, at some point in time, used in vain. Maybe you’ve had a conversation with your significant other that went something like this, “Hey if that’s me I want you to pull the plug”.   But how many of us have actually been faced with that decision? How many of us have had to sign a document stating that you knew that when the doctors turned off the machines, your loved one would die? A much smaller percentage of us, I’m sure. Because how could anyone give up on a loved one? It’s feels so….hopeless. The decision to “pull the plug” on someone? Not so cut and dry when it’s your mom, dad, daughter, son, sister, brother…lying in a hospital bed unable to communicate with you. What would they want you to do? Would they want you to pull the plug? Or would they want you to fight with the doctors to hold off just a little longer? 3 years ago around this time, my family was faced with this decision. My mom had been diagnosed with cancer about 9 months earlier, and she had seriously digressed since she had been admitted to the hospital two months earlier. The last month of her life, doctors were hounding us to pull the plug. They sent people in to talk to us about hospice. They tried to convince us that her life, as we knew it, was over. But we held on. For longer than we probably should have. But how could we give up on her? The person who almost died having (one of) us and spent every minute of her life making OUR lives better? There was literally no way we could sign on that dotted line; knowing that her death was coming. The last month of her life, she wasn’t really there. But her heart was still beating. Could we have a conversation with her? No. Could we hold her hand, brush her hair and talk to her? Yes. Could she hear us? Maybe not. Could we watch the machines she was hooked up to, knowing that her heart was still beating? Yes – and as long as her heart was still beating, there was that small, teeny tiny shrivel of hope that could remain with us. When you are talking about the end of someone’s life, those little moments matter. They matter. Her life mattered. And every additional second that we got with her, whether or not she was really “there”; it mattered.

On March 19th, 2013, I turned 31. I remember the year before, on my 30th birthday, I was bummed that I couldn’t celebrate with my friends. I was upset that I didn’t have any big plans – no party, no big 30th birthday shenanigans to brag about on social media.   And just one year later my birthday wishes were so different; monumentally different.   My only wish that year was that it wasn’t the day my mom’s body gave up, once and for all. I didn’t know if I could handle that. And she listened. It doesn’t surprise me, really. My mom was the most selfless person I knew – the term “I would give you the shirt off my back” was honestly invented for her. So in the end, I know that she did that for me, my twin brother and the rest of my family – because how could we face our birthday for years to come knowing it was also the day she took her final breath. On the 20th, I got a call pretty early in the day from my brother to get on a plane and come back home. I found a flight for that evening, but he said no, get there as quickly as I could. I somehow managed to find a direct flight that left soon; leaving me with just enough time to pack for what I knew was going to involve a funeral. My husband drove me to the airport and I boarded that plane, scared to death that she would take her last breath while I was 30,000 feet up. When we landed I turned on my phone and held my breath, knowing that even if something had happened while I was in the air no one would have let me find out that way. My brother picked me up and drove as fast as he could to the hospital. I was the last one there. I walked in, saw my whole family surrounding her bed and saw things that made me realize that this really was it for her. My hope was suddenly gone. It was time for goodbyes. We all took turns, alone, saying goodbye. I went last. I don’t remember exactly what I said; I know it involved a lot of tears. I apologized for not being able to help her. I told her how much I loved her. I thanked her for everything she did for me throughout the years. It wasn’t enough time; but really no amount of time would have been enough.

Around 7:00 that evening, we signed the required paperwork. Essentially, we were signing that we knew what would happen – they would unplug everything and she would eventually stop breathing; her heart would stop beating. And no one would do anything. She would just slowly stop being alive. They told us it would happen fast. And for one final in-your-face moment, my mom rose to the occasion. She refused to go quickly. She held on for about 12 hours, and around 7:30 the next morning, she took her last breath. I can’t accurately describe that moment. Its surreal watching someone take their last breath, mostly because you don’t know it’s actually their last breath. So you sit and wait, wondering if that was it until you realize it’s been too long since the last one so that must have been it. So that was it. One minute she was here, she was with us, her heart was still beating. And just a minute later she was gone; her heart was no longer beating. In that same moment someone was showering and getting ready for work. Someone else was meeting their baby for the first time. Someone was dropping their child off at school. Someone was enjoying their morning cup of coffee. People were going on with their lives, whether mundane or extraordinary, they were living their lives. And mine felt like it just ended. How is it possible, that in the same moment, so many different things could be happening? The worst moment of my life, could be the best moment of someone else’s? It doesn’t make sense. But in actuality it does. Every single second of the day, someone somewhere in the world is having the best moment of their life, while someone somewhere else is having the world moment of their life.

So here I sit on the anniversary of her death. It doesn’t make sense to me, still, three years later. Why was it my mom? Why wasn’t she given the opportunity to be a grandmother, witness all of her children get married? Enjoy her retirement? Why didn’t she get to live well into her 80’s? I’ll never get an answer to that. And I’m not even sure an answer would help. I still miss her every single second of the day. I think about her mostly at night, or while I’m driving alone – missing her and wondering where she is. Is she happy? Is she proud of me? Does she think I’m a good mom?

Has it gotten easier? Not really. I still miss her, every single day. I still feel angry that she didn’t beat cancer; angry at the doctors, angry at cancer, angry at God (I’m working on this one).

People say it gets easier with time. It doesn’t. You learn to live with a hole in your heart. But nothing actually fills that hole. You never feel the same normal you felt before you “pulled the plug”, but you find your new normal.   Your heart may grow in other places, like mine did when I gave birth to my daughter. But the hole I have in my heart from missing her – it’s still there. And I don’t expect it to ever go away.

I miss you Mom.


mom and katie


Share this!Share on FacebookPin on PinterestShare on YummlyShare on Google+Tweet about this on TwitterEmail this to someone

You may also like


  1. What a special post, Kate. Crying as I read this and remembering how much your mom loves you and your bothers and sister and thinking about how proud she would be of what an amazing mother you are to Layla. Sending you so much love now and always

  2. Wow… being on the other side of the bed as a healthcare worker it is hard to understand why families don’t withdraw treatment sometimes but that definitely helped put in perspective why some families hold on longer. I dread the day the tables will turn and I’m sure at some point in my life they will. Your mother is a beautiful soul. I love seeing the pictures you post of her, it definitely keeps her spirit alive. Thanks for allowing us to walk in your shoes!

    1. Oh Tammy it really means a lot to me that my post gave you some perspective. I can’t imagine doing what you do for a living – I imagine you become numb to some of it. In retrospect the doctors were probably right….but in the moment it feels so wrong. Thank you for reading!

  3. This really resonated with me Katie. In fact, it made me cry, because I feel your pain and I’ve shared your thoughts and questions. I lost both of my parents to cancer. My mom passed away when I was 13 and my dad passed away the day after I turned 25. I believe he also held on one more day just for me. I remember the rushed drive from VA to PA to be by his side in his final moments. I remember those final moments. We are stronger for having gone through this tremendous loss and I think are and will be better moms because of it. Our parents live on through us and in our hearts for our lifetimes.

    1. Oh Mel it’s a club we never wanted to be in, but we are. I’m sure your dad held on – now that I’m a parent I know that I would do anything in the world to cause her as little pain and sadness as possible. Your dad and my mom knew that our birthdays couldn’t be their final days. So selfless – the epitome of a parenting. I know that my mom is a part of Layla and we honored her with Layla’s middle name. Layla will always know about my mom and the angel that is watching over her.

  4. oh Katie, my arms are wrapped around you so tightly in love and prayers. I know exactly how you feel — my parents died together on March 5th, 1969, and not a day goes by with a dull ache. I think about them in the same way you do. They never met John, my children, or knew of my career that reflected the amazing music legacy that my mother instilled in me.
    But they do live on in my heart, in the lives of my children, and in the beauty i see around me. I am so thankful each and every day that they were so wonderful and special and gave me such a happy childhood and values and faith that i can depend upon as i travel the journey of life without their physical presence. Rejoice in all that you had together, and the celebrations of life and living that you shared. that will continue to live on and be the tapestry of your life and the lives of those around you. She is so proud of you, Katie girl — you are amazing, beautiful inside and out — and spread so much joy wherever you go. Live with your mom’s light.

  5. We signed a DNR and made the decision to unplug my 7-year old son this last Christmas…my birthday! It was one of the most heart wrenching moments of my life. I say “one of” because figuring out how to live since that day has been a challenge. Night time and driving are worst for me as well. This post resonates with me so much. Hugs to you. Thanks for sharing.

  6. I saw you on mombloggerclub.com. This is my first time reading your blog. I lost my father to cancer 6 years ago and then my mom two years ago to cancer a week before Mother’s Day. Both my parents never drank or smoked. It is so so hard! It hurts to hear someone else has gone through similar things because I totally get it and understand. It’s ok to be angry with God. He can handle it. For me, it has helped me by reading this GIANORMOUS book called Heaven by Randy Alcorn. It helped me to know where they are and how it all works. I’m praying for you!

  7. I can’t believe I just read this. It is so well written Katie and you have been able to put every feeling into words for me. You are so right – you need to find your new normal, I haven’t found it yet

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

CommentLuv badge