I posted this on the first anniversary of my death. The grief is subsiding and life does go on althought it is not quite the same. August 16 will always be a hard day for me... 

I got to the hospital early. They let me into the Transplant ICU even though it was not visiting hours and they were usually very strict about visiting hours. I'm not sure if she could hear me but I talked with my mom. I held her hand, it was warm from the warming blanket she was under and swollen from all of the fluid they were pumping into her.Through my tears I told her that she was the best, she was the best! I told her that I was sorry that I was such a difficult teenager, and sorry for the pain my coming out had caused her, and sorry I never gave her any grandchildren. Most of all I was sorry that there was nothing more I could do for her now.

Since her transplant I did everything I could to make sure she was getting the best treatment. I talked to her doctors and nurses, I kept a log of all of her medicines and I researched online about what to expect and what questions to ask. I visited her every night for the last 10 weeks encouraging her and telling her about the traveling we would do and the shopping we would do when she was better. She couldn't speak due to the ventilator but she mouthed the words Las Vegas and Vera Wang. But a massive infection had overtaken her body and the doctors suggested 'comfort measures only'. That meant removing the fluids and the 3 IVs that were keeping her blood pressure up, but just barely.

My father and brothers and sister, one by one, arrived at the hospital. We sat in a small room our expressions as blank as the walls of the room. My mom's transplant surgeon was looking at the floor, he was serious and quiet and told us that the infection and low blood pressure had damaged the transplanted liver. He could not look at us. His young, female, Indian associated also stared at the floor tears running down her cheeks. He said that my mother was a very special lady and he would always remember her and he had never seen a family love and support anyone like we did. We should be proud.

Each of us called one of our uncles, her brothers, and told them that she was not going to make it. I waited outside the hospital. They arrived in a caravan of large black cars parking illegally and running toward me looking like aging characters from "The Sopranos". I had never seen any of them cry before but they hugged me and we cried. They were losing their only sister, their baby sister.

We all circled her bed and I nodded to the nurse. My sister, in the loudest voice I have ever heard her speak in said, "We're all here mum. We'll be OK. We'll take care of each other!". The nurse turned off each of the IVs. I held my mom's hand and stared at the monitor. Her blood pressure dropped to zero almost immediately and her heart slowed. She stopped breathing. My father kissed her on the forehead and left the room, then one by one everyone else left the room in tears. I did not cry. I stared at the monitor. My mom was not breathing, her blood pressure was zero, but there was still a faint heartbeat. The nurse whispered, 'She's gone", in my ear. But I could not leave until the monitor said her heart rate was zero.

I walked down the hall to the little room. My sister looked at me through her tears and I nodded. I hugged each of my siblings and my father and told them I had to leave. I had to get away from that place. I ran up the stairs, I ran faster across the hospital driveway to my car. I jumped in and sat there. Everything was spinning and I was hyperventilating. I pounded on the steering wheel and tried to calm myself down so I could drive away from this place.

I texted my 3 best friends a message: She's gone.