mary elizabeth keilman
Now nothing could stop it…her mom was going to die. Keilman gives an honest and endearing account of her life’s path through the dying process. It is sad, funny, real…a story you can truly relate to.
Woven with the threads of emotional despair and eventual triumph, Keilman’s ability to share her experiences will keep you reading. As she ventures through her own emotional junkyard, she stumbles across some enlightening and empowering life lessons – the ones which would help her overcome her grief.
Based on a true story, my mom died and I’m okay touches the heart. Although it deals with end-stage cancer, the concepts apply to many illnesses. It makes the heavy soul lighter; it gives the outsider a better understanding; it is a great read for those touched by the dying process, whether up close or at a distance.
Mary Keilman, nee Cable, is from Carol Stream, Illinois and resides in Aurora with her husband, Al. She is a property manager at a senior residences. The Keilmans treasure time with family and friends, and have relied on each other and a positive outlook to overcome life’s challenges. Keilman has a magnetic personality and a smile for everyone.
After the doctor left, my mother looked at me and immediately read the desperation on my face. I leaned over the bed and grasped the cold side rails that were meant to protect whomever happened to be its current patient. Nothing could protect my mother now. She was DYING!
You would think this was about me; in my mind I was running like a mental patient through my own emotional junkyard. She looked into my desperate brown eyes. “Now, Mary…”
“No, Ma, there has to be something else,” I half-pleaded. I felt almost panicked. I don’t want my mom to die…not yet…just a little more time…somebody, please…
“Mary, listen to me. We knew it would come to this. It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”
Suddenly a memory floods my mind. Mom and I are shopping. She is able to walk but uses her wheelchair because her energy is limited. We are goofing off and having fun. I say something funny; she laughs and turns around and looks at me with those twinkling blue eyes which convey a spirit that is very much alive.
I look down at the top of her head now. She sits in the wheelchair, slightly hunched to one side and motionless. She is a lump. Her skin is grayish. Is this my mother?
It was only 7:30 p.m., but we are all overtired. We have no schedule. I took another quiet step into the room. He did not notice me. I opened my mouth and tried to find my voice.
“Dad?” I mouthed but only a small noise came out of me. I swallowed and moved closer. My inner battle continued. I should stay but I just can’t.
“Dad.” He turned to look at me. Suddenly I felt like I was eight again. I was a little girl, and I was going to bring my troubles to my daddy so he could fix them. My sweet father reacted exactly as I knew he would. “C’mere, honey. What’s wrong?” I was drawn to his side now. I went to him, and he put his hand out to his little girl. I took it. “Dad, I want to go home. I’m sorry.” I shook my head and looked down, wallowing in my self disappointment. “Listen to me,” he said. “You have to take care of yourself. Go home and sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.”
