An alternate broadband connection

Sometimes I am completely out of my depth. So much so that even if I tried to wise up, I wouldn’t be able to. The lack of skills, experience, and knowledge to deal with certain challenging situations is just insurmountable. And yet there are instances where I know exactly what to do regardless.

One of the best examples for what I am talking about are the last 15 minutes I spent with my mother.

She was at home on hospice care, looked after by close family and a nurse. We took turns to rest. That particular night I woke up after only one hour of sleep. I recalled a comment someone had made earlier that week. He had said that my laugh was just like my mother’s. Unlike other times when people (dared to!) find similarities between her and me, I had actually been delighted to hear that.

Even though it was the middle of the night, I had the strong desire to share this with my mum. I got up and found my sister and the nurse at her hospital bed in the dining room, struggling to give her her medication. I offered to help and for some reason, I was able to administer it smoothly and on the first try.

The nurse and my sister retired to the kitchen and I sat down next to my mother. She seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness and was unable to speak, yet I had no doubt that she could hear me. Fondly I said to her:

“Do you want to hear something funny? If someone told me today that I am just like you, I would be proud. Can you believe that? All my life I wanted to be like Dad. But now, if someone told me I’m like my mother, it would make me smile.”

I had barely finished that sentence when her breathing changed. For days it had been plainly audible and labored. But all of a sudden it was mellow and relaxed. I didn’t attach any importance to it. I just felt a strong desire to allow her full enjoyment of the peacefulness that infused her.

I signaled my husband to ask the nurse and my sister to talk a little bit more quietly since their voices could be heard all the way from the kitchen.

Instead of continuing their conversation, the nurse decided to join us, and my sister made herself comfortable in the living room. Next, it occurred to me that it would be nice for my sister to see our mother in this calm and relaxed state. And so, I signaled again – this time the nurse to please fetch my sister.

The instant my sister stepped to the bedside, I realized what was happening. My mother was dying. I knew, even though I had never been with a dying person before.

I started to stroke her arm and looked into her eyes. Her eyelids were almost closed, but I smiled anyway.

That’s when my mind went berserk:

“Why are you smiling like a joker? She is dying! Do you think smiling is appropriate? She’ll think you are happy she’s croaking! And why are you stroking her arm!? Didn’t she tell you she doesn’t want to be held back when the time comes? Touching her will hold her back! Stop it!”

Despite my mind condemning my behavior as utterly misguided, I kept on smiling and continued to stroke her arm. I even stepped it up a notch and said with a tang of joy: “Yes!”

Moments later, my mum drew her last breath. It was a mere fifteen minutes after I woke up with the urge to talk to her.


At the time I did not understand the significance and value behind my actions. Frankly, it took me years to put two and two together:

Unlike my mind had suggested, my smile had not been a sign of happiness about her passing. Rather, it had been like a loving farewell wave.

Stroking her arm reinforced the smile. And in case my mother could not see me through her almost closed eyes, she would be able to feel me and my affection for her. Just resting my hand on her arm would not have accomplished that. At some point, my touch would have faded away against the backdrop of all the other senses. But by stroking her skin, my caring touch was noticeable at all times.

Also, contrary to what my mind claimed, I was not holding my mother back by touching her. Instead I was letting her feel my presence. I had promised her that I would be with her all the way. If she couldn’t see me, she would be able to feel that I was there.

And then there was the “Yes.”

Yes is a positive word. A word of approval, affirmation, and appreciation. Whatever my mother needed, the “Yes” would provide it.

Yes – it is okay to go.
Yes – it is okay to stay a little longer.
Yes – we love you.
Yes – we will miss you.
Yes – we will be fine.
Yes – all is well.
Yes.

To this day I am mesmerized by the genius behind every single act. I find it fascinating how a seemingly insignificant impulse led to another and another, only to culminate in something quite extraordinary. It was like following a breadcrumb trail or step-by-step instructions:

I woke up prematurely, spurred by a strong desire to talk to my mother. I gave in, only to arrive at her bedside in time to help administer her medication. I told my mother about my newly found joy at being compared to her, and her breathing changed. That triggered the impulse to focus on her peacefulness. Once I did, I asked my sister to join us. Then I realized my mum was dying. Not before. Not after. Everything came to me exactly when I needed to be “in the know” or when I required a nudge in the right direction – from waking up early to saying “Yes.”

Even though the experience was somewhat otherworldly, at least for now I prefer a more lighthearted approach to describe what happened. Like the one I had with my friend when I told her about it:

She said: “Looks like you tapped into the universal ‘broadband’ of infinite intelligence.”
I said: “Well, if that’s the case, let’s hope I haven’t used up all my data yet!” 😉

Brigitte K. Schneider
aka Ms. T-Mobile

Copyright © 2022, Brigitte K. Schneider. If you wish to quote text from this article contact the author by leaving a comment.