The Last Kindness

Love remains

There is a quiet that settles over you. A stillness. Not empty. Not cold. Just still, in a way I never quite experienced before. The kind of stillness that makes everyone speak softer, without being asked.

The room was cool. And although the light was somewhat bright, there was a sense of warmth among us. Beside her resting place, we organized bowls of warm water, oils, and cloths. We gathered around her. My brother, standing tall, holding a hand, remembering, loving her. My daughter, beside him, laying a hand on her grandma’s shoulder, and listening, as we quietly described how her grandma looked. Words that would allow her to carry a vision and memories of this moment in time.

For months, we had contemplated this moment. Her death. And we probably even feared what it might look like, feel like, do to us.

Yet, standing there together, our hands resting on my mom’s body, I felt something entirely different.

Not fear. Not sadness.

Reverence.

And love, so present in the room it seemed to soften everything around us.

My mom died on June 12, 2025. As we near the 1st anniversary of her death, it seems now is the time to share how we bestowed her with our “Last Kindness”.

As we were sitting vigil with my mom last year, I wrote about how hard it was, the emotions. The gratitude, the regret, the forgiveness. You can read it here.

The sadness, the loss of a generation, the uncertainty of what would become of us, of me.

The recognition of there truly never being enough time. There will never be enough time.

I didn’t know how it would feel in the end. Yet, when death came, it was reverent.

And so, as my brother headed out for a walk, my daughter and I, along with the loving guidance of Ngaio Davis, KORU Cremation|Burial|Ceremony, began.

We started with the music. A playlist of songs we’d compiled over the last 10 days of mom’s life. Music she loved. Music that reminded us of her. Music that held our faith and gratitude for her. Her love. Her legacy. We played this music for her - for us, every day we sat with her before her death.

In those days prior, this music brought tears … laughter … memories … hope. Hope her transition would be easy. Hope she would remember how much we loved and appreciated her. Hope that she would reunite with all the loved ones left before, and that God would hold a place at his table just for her. Hope that she would finally know just how much she is truly loved.

She was afraid to die. So we committed to being there 24 hours a day until her death. My brother, my son, my daughter. All of us took some time.

I wasn’t able to be there when she died. My brother was. And just as we discussed, he tucked her rabbit under her arm; tucked the photos from her bulletin board into her hands, and he stayed with her until KORU’s transportation team arrived. She would not be alone.

And here we were now, extending our last kindness. As Rita McNeil began to sing softly, I opened the bag I brought with me. A brush, a comb, a curling iron, a flannel nightgown, and a box filled with cards. Christmas cards, Mother’s Day, birthday. Cards my mom had collected from her entire life. Years ago, I had wondered why she would have kept them all. Yet the more open I became about truly understanding my mom, the more I began to understand it. She held on to them because they came from people she loved, and who loved her. They simply reminded her that she was definitely loved.

As Ngaio filled the bowl with warm water and oils, my daughter and I began. My mom looked so calm … peaceful. It had been years since I’d seen such peace in her face. I was grateful. This warm cloth connected us. As we bathed her, we shared stories and memories with Ngaio. She welcomed and invited them. It was soothing and healing for us.

We dressed her in the flannel night gown. Bright pink with roses and white flowers. I had bought it only weeks prior. Stopped in for a visit with my mom and showed it to her. She loved it. She always loved pink … and flannel nightgowns. I had taken it home to shorten for her, but she never got to wear it. It seemed so right that she wear it now. Her face almost glowed once she was dressed in this pink … flannel … nightgown. I am certain she was happy.

As I curled and combed her hair, the way she always liked it, my brother returned. She was almost ready. We were almost ready. We gathered around her, music softly continuing to play. We chatted and shared more stories as we tucked the rabbit back under her arm. She wasn’t going to be alone. She no longer had to be afraid.

Together, we lifted her from the table to the cremation tray. I had found the last letter I had written her from Christmas 2 years prior - inside the box of cards. I tucked this letter into her hands, along with the photos from her bulletin board. These hands that wore almost 90 years of caring, living and loving lay gently across her waist. We made sure she still had her anniversary ring on her finger. She had always said, even in her dementia, “This is going with me”. And so it was. It would go with her.

That box of cards was precious to my mom. We placed each card around her on the cremation tray. She would take the box of love and precious memories with her, too. Mom was never willing to really talk about her wishes for end of life, or after-death plans. Yet, we’d listened to things she said over the years - and we made sure we remembered. We made sure we gave her this last act of kindness. Of love.

We stare at her, at each other. She is ready. We know we are, too. Ngaio asks: “Are you all ready now?” We nod our heads, and as we all say “yes, we’re ready", Amazing Grace begins to play. Ngaoi acknowledges “how perfect for this moment”. Yes, how perfect. All of it was perfect.

Ngaio places tea light candles with mom, and we say “goodbye”, “see you later”, “we love you, mom”. Yes mom, your work here is done.

Afterward we gather in the caring space next. My brother, my daughter, and I. As we wait for Ngaio, we take notice. Werthers caramels are in the tulip candy dish on the coffee table. We laugh - Werthers caramels have been on our mom’s coffee table, in a similar dish … forever. “She’s here”, I say.

And then, there is a basket filled with cookies. “Look”, I say to the others. “Mom’s cookies!” Celebration caramel cookies. You would always find at least two boxes of these exact cookies in our mom’s fridge before she went into care. We have to have them. We all take one and laugh out loud. Our hearts smile, we smile, there is joy in this room. My brother speaks. “I think she approves. We’ve done right by her. She approves.”

Ngaio later tells us this is the very first time she’s had those cookies. Only just purchased a day or so ago. Yes. Yes. I think our mom approves.

As we climb into the car, my daughter comments on how “peaceful and healing” the experience was. My brother agrees. “This was good, Karen. Really good.” I am so very glad we shared in this experience together.

When we come together to bear witness to the dying, to death, and how we tend to our dead … and also each other, something magical can happen. Reflecting back now, I know for certain:

• Our mom’s illness and death have created a greater intimacy between us

• Old heart wounds have somehow healed or become softer for us

• Each of us is less afraid of our own mortality and the realities of death

• We still grieve, and always will … But, it’s gentler … easier

• We did right by our Mom, our Grandma, our Great-Grandma. We all did.

• We loved.

Death is a sacred labour that we can bear witness to, participate in, and engage with through vigil, gathering, remembering, and storytelling. When we let our love guide us and continue through our care, fear diminishes. Love is ever-present, and our grief is softer.

We thought we were giving our mom this last kindness, yet we were also giving this kindness to ourselves. Death is not to be feared. Death is to be honoured, revered, celebrated. This is where the love lives on. This is where love remains.

It’s been a year since my mom’s death. My mom is still teaching me, guiding me. My relationship with my mom has changed, not just physically, but emotionally. I understand her better now. I know her more. I respect her more.

A lot has changed in me. It’s been an incredible year.

So on this first anniversary of my mom’s death, I will revisit and relive this “Last Kindness”. I will remember the sounds, the scents, the conversations. I will be reminded of the love that was in the room that day. I will never forget that even in death, love remains.

go gently,

Karen

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Let me know what you think of this article. What may have stirred in you? What perspectives are you left with?