I remember the day all too well. Mom had spent multiple weeks in the hospital. Mom was recently transferred back to our local hospital after being turned down for a lung transplant through Shans in Gainesville and after her immediate rejection from Tampa General. 

As she and my dad reflected on the news’s gravity of having nothing more, we can do. I’m sure they discussed what the future held for them and what they were willing to commit to each other in the last months of her life. Part of that was clearly articulating what she wanted for the rest of her days and what she wanted for her family in the last few days.

I was on a work call when she called – and I missed the call. She left a voicemail, which was not transcribe-able, which was nothing out of the ordinary as it was usually hard to hear and understand her on the phone through her machines. She called back right away. She never called back to back, so I knew there was something urgent going on. I turned off my video in my meeting, put myself on mute, and answered. 

“Hey, Momma… what’s cookin’ good lookin’? How’s your day?”

Through tears, she choked out, “Hey sweetheart, your dad and I have been talking. There’s nothing left they can do for me. I’m not getting any better. I’ve signed my DNR. I don’t want to linger. I don’t want to put your daddy through that. I don’t want to put you, kids, through that. I don’t want you guys to have to make that decision. If I get intubated, they have two weeks to get me off or disconnect me, and let God take it over.”

“Ok, Momma, If that’s what you want. I love you. Don’t cry. We’ll do whatever you want. If that is what you want, if you and Daddy are on the same page, we will support your decision. I love you; I have to go… I love you…bye,” I choked out through tears. 

I lost it. All of it. Every ounce of composure I tried to maintain. I ran to the bathroom. I tried to text my boss. I tried to throw up but dry heaved instead. I shrank into a sniffly, snot face child – a hyperventilating ball of sadness on the floor. My husband rushed to my side. I shoved my phone into his hand and asked him to text my boss that I won’t be finishing the day – mom signed her DNR. He sat on the bathroom floor with me, all 6’3″ of him, sitting criss-cross applesauce in a tiny spare bathroom, and held me as I sobbed my eyes out for what seemed like hours. He kept telling me, “we can’t give up – shes strong – she’s a fighter!” Maybe he was telling himself that, to kept it together for me.

It was just a big ol’ ball of sadness.

 She signed her DNR papers. Those legally binding documents between you and the hospital or hospice that mean Do Not Resuscitate. For our family, it told us she had found peace in the future to come. She was accepting her expiration date. And, we had to, too.

As I look back on that brief but very impactful 30-second conversation, I realized a few things. What an amazing person she was to think of everyone else, even in her dying days. Her openness and candidness allowed us to begin grieving and to process what was about to come. 

I learned A DNR no longer means Do Not Resuscitate. It really means Do Not Reason. Out of love, she had done all the reasoning she could, for herself, for my dad, and her kids. And I thank her, and I love her for that.