"My mother passed away 9 months into my pregnancy."

The phone rang and my body tensed, just as it had for the last two days whenever the phone had rung.

I was waiting for the call. The one where the voice on the other end of the line would tell me, “She’s gone, Jacqui. Mum died.”

This was the call. Not a false alarm like the day before, when I breathed heavily in sadness, trying to picture the vigil around my mother’s rented hospital bed in her living room.

Through his tears, my brother told me that the end was near. Even more than 3,200 kilometres away, I knew he was right. On speakerphone, I could hear her breathing. It was loud and rough, and sounded like a coffee maker percolating — gurgling.

“Jacqui,” he whispered, “the nurse told me that it’s not uncommon for people to hold onto life and not die when someone they love is about to give birth. The nurse thinks she’s waiting for your baby to be born.” I gasped. This baby wasn’t coming out anytime soon, and my mother had been in a drug-induced coma for a few days already. I didn’t have a crystal ball, but having had two children before, I knew how my body felt when it was preparing to go into labor. I was close, but not that close.

Hot tears started to stream down my cheeks, one after the other, at a fast pace. “But I just came from the doctor,” I told him. “It’s not going to happen for at least two weeks!”

"Well, I think the nurse may be right. Do you want to talk to Mum?"

He put the speakerphone close to our mother's body, and I took a deep breath. I had done this several times over the last few days. Talk to her, I mean. I told her about what my kids were doing, what we were thinking of naming the baby, how much I loved her, how my brothers and I were always going to stay close. Words of comfort -- comfort for her, and comfort for me. This conversation was going to be different, though. I felt something grow heavy in my heart, and I knew I had to let it out.

"Mum," I sobbed through thick tears, dripping onto my maternity pants and making a big, wet circle on my thigh. "Mum," I said again. "The nurse thinks you may be holding on, to hear about this baby being born. But Mum," I paused, the words pushing heavily on my chest, as if refusing to come out, "he's not ready. You can let go, Mum. It's OK. Let go."

My body was trembling and shivering, and I couldn't stop crying. My husband, ever the sensitive soul, watched me like a statue as I had to force myself to say those words. When they were out, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, like a crane resting on a building. Nothing could be pleasant or soothing at that moment.

I stayed on speakerphone, and listened as my uncle, my mother's brother -- a doctor -- explained how everything that was happening was normal for this situation. A situation that I couldn't see, but could understand through the sobs of my brother. My oldest brother had just walked the 10-minute stroll back to his house to eat dinner with his family.

Gurgle gurgle. Sob. "It's OK, this is normal." I wiped my nose with the cuff of my sleeve, since the box of tissues was now empty, and getting my full term pregnant body up off the couch to grab another one was more than I could bear in that moment.

"It's happening!" My brother screamed. "Oh God, It's happening!" The tears that I thought couldn't flow any more heavily began to spout out in a way I never knew my body could express itself. "Aaaaaaah." Letters and words can't do justice to the sound my brother made when he knew our mother had passed. My dog heard the sound through the phone and began to bark. "It happened?" I asked. My brain was trying to imagine the scene at that moment, so many miles away, but the thoughts weren't forming. "Is she gone?" I said again, almost as if this were a false alarm, and perhaps she'd woken up, healthy and cancer-free.

"Let's just take this off," I heard my uncle say. I later found out it was in reference to her watch. A watch I now keep in my bedside table.

The next few minutes and hours were a blur. I couldn't process what had just happened. My mother had died from pancreatic cancer, while I sat on my brown living room couch, nine months pregnant in a different country. As my brothers prepared her funeral, I stared out the sliding glass windows into my backyard. I wouldn't be there. At my stage of pregnancy - due any day - I couldn't get on an aeroplane. I wouldn't be there.

I did see her funeral, later on that Sunday, when my eldest brother face-timed me to watch the clip on his computer. And I cried as I felt my baby kick as I watched the rectangular wooden box being taken to the edge of the cemetery.

Twelve days after my mum died, my son was born.

I'll never know if my mum let go after I gave her "permission" to, but it's something that I think about often. Just as I think about so many other memories that I have of her. The same ones that I'll tell my kids about as they grow and begin to forget her...

"You who have a mother, love her while you may, for the world is quite another, when she is taken away." - Source unknown

Have you lost someone close to you? How did you cope?

This post was originally published on Huffington Post. It is republished here with permission. 

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