Remembering Mom’s Life and Peaceful Passing
My mom passed away on April 2, just about a month ago. Through previous articles in The English Compass, I’ve shared the struggles she faced with dementia in the later part of her life. By the time she passed, her dementia was moderate. While she could still eat, sleep, walk independently, and recognize her immediate family, she was deeply anxious, fearful, and plagued with constant dread. Her quality of life was, unfortunately, very poor. So, when my brother called me early Tuesday morning with the news that Mom had passed away in her sleep, I was overwhelmed with shock—but also a sense of relief that she no longer had to suffer.
There are many things I thank God for regarding the manner and circumstances of her passing. One of the greatest blessings is that she died peacefully in her sleep, in her own home. She had been complaining of stomach pain, but the symptoms didn’t seem severe enough to warrant a doctor’s visit. Having survived colon cancer 20 years earlier, occasional stomach discomfort wasn’t unusual for her. She didn’t have to go through hospice or even be hospitalized before she passed. She simply went to sleep and then on to her eternal rest. When I tell others about how she died, they all agree she had a “blessed death.” In Korean culture, there’s even a special word for such a peaceful passing.
I am the middle child, between my older brother Wilson and my younger sister Susan. Through separate conversations with them, we all realized that, although we didn’t know it would be our final time with Mom, each of us had a sweet and meaningful last encounter.
Wilson visited her the week before to help with a plumbing issue. When she saw him, her face lit up with joy—she ran to him, gave him a big hug, and told him how happy she was to see him. It was a brief visit, but precious. Wilson also shared that she came to him in a dream the night before she died—something that had never happened before.
Susan went to the house to take my dad to Costco because he had told me he wanted to go. But when she arrived, he said he didn’t feel like going and instead asked if she could stay with Mom while he had lunch with friends. Susan ended up spending Saturday and Sunday with Mom the weekend before she passed. She said Mom was especially kind, even telling her she looked pretty.
I saw Mom the day before, on Monday, during my usual weekly visit. She seemed a bit more tired than usual, but nothing alarming. When I arrived, she was in her bedroom and looked a little down, which wasn’t unusual. She encouraged me to go run errands since she knew I was busy. So, I picked up groceries and medication for my parents, then came back to have lunch with them. My dad, mom, and I ate together, and she had a healthy appetite—something I’m incredibly thankful for. Many elderly people nearing the end stop eating, a sign they’re preparing to “transition.” I learned this during my mother-in-law’s final days with hospice care.
During my visits, I often tried to help Mom shower. Sometimes she resisted, other times she was more cooperative. That Monday, she was hesitant at first, but eventually smiled and agreed. Afterward, she seemed more comfortable and thanked me. I feel deeply honored to have been the last person to help her shower. I’m quietly proud that I could coax her into doing things no one else could—a sign of her trust and love for me.
One of the most poignant memories I have is of her last haircut. I had taken her to the salon a few weeks before. The usually busy salon was unusually quiet that day. While I was getting my hair colored—a long henna treatment—the hairdresser took her time with Mom. Her hair looked neat and chic; it was probably the best haircut of her life. After her death, I stopped by the salon to thank them for making her look so beautiful. I told them how peaceful and lovely she looked in her coffin. The hairdresser remembered how smooth Mom’s hair was that day and how well the cut turned out. I cried and hugged the two stylists, overwhelmed with gratitude for God’s tender attention to even these small details.
Another blessing: Mom lived to celebrate her 90th birthday. After she passed, my aunt told me that Mom had predicted years ago that she would live to 90. She outlived all eight of her siblings.
She didn’t just live a long life—she lived a remarkable one. Born a girl with five brothers in a poor household, she had to fight to become a nurse. Her determination got her there, but her compassion showed in the way she used her skills to care for friends and family in Korea. After immigrating to America in the early 1970s, she passed the U.S. nursing exam and worked as an ICU nurse at Parsons Hospital. Later, she joined my father in running their small businesses. She worked incredibly hard—14-hour days, six days a week—but still lived a full and joyful life. She traveled the world with her nursing alumni group and had the time of her life with friends. She had a vibrant sense of humor and brought joy wherever she went.
More than anything, she loved being a mother—and she was very good at it. She was a proud grandmother to nine grandchildren and supported each one wholeheartedly. Her love lives on in all of us.
Even with all these blessings, I’m still coming to terms with her absence. While I’m thankful she’s no longer in pain, I feel an emptiness that’s hard to describe. I can’t see her or talk to her anymore, and that loss is profound. Still, small things bring me comfort—like using one of the keychains she collected from her travels. Holding it makes me feel connected to her. But even more than objects, the love she gave lives on in everyone she touched.
As her daughter, I feel privileged to have received so much love from her. I praise and thank God for giving me such a wonderful mother—and for giving her a peaceful passing.