The following is excerpted from the book The Rabbit Effect by Dr. Kelli Harding.
‘In the midst of a January snowstorm, I went to see my mom’s body one final time at the funeral home before it was cremated.
She’d died only four days before, and it had been just over two weeks since the night I got her strange text. Home from a long day on call in the ER as a weekend attending, I was curled up in bed watching the movie Francis Ha when I saw the message: “Hi Kaelli I am home now ani An Ian not shut I will be comin g over tomorrow I will have to see how I feel lo b.” My mom was a teacher and always a stickler for grammar, even in her texts.
In one horrifying moment, I realized she was having a stroke.
Within hours of arriving back at the hospital, my mom could no longer move, see, or talk except for the opening and closing of her right hand. While she seemed to hear and understand us, she was locked in her own world.
She and I developed a hand system to say “I love you.” I——squeeze——love—squeeze—-you——squeeze.”
For nearly two weeks I sat fixed to her hospital bedside. My colleagues covered my patients as I experienced medicine from the other side.
When my mom stopped returning the squeezes, I knew she was gone.
Life, as we all know, can change in an instant.
In the funeral home, despite the unexpectedly bright postmortem makeup, which would have made my mom chuckle, her face looked peaceful. Standing next to her body, I had the same familiar feeling I get with all the corpses I’ve seen——the body is there, but the person is gone. My mom’s exuberant personality, melodic voice, and warm laugh echoed in my memory.
Where did all her energy go?
I wish I knew.
That night something strange happened.
My mom regularly watched my son Zay, who was a charming nearly two year old at the time. They spent their days together reading books, playing games, and exploring the world.
While he did not fully have the words to express it, Zay seemed painfully aware of his grandma’s absence. He frequently asked for her. When we’d remind him that she got very sick, he’d announce, “Grandma is in my heart.”
The day mom was cremated, Zay began to cry in the night. In the dark, my husband brought him to me, and I held my little boy close to my body.
I felt comforted by his warmth and sweet smell. In his toddler drawl, he said a discernible “I love you,”…..an unexpected and unprompted first.
I beamed in the dark, hugging him tighter.
Then he forcefully grabbed my hand.
He gave me three distinct squeezes: one——pause—two—pause—three. The first squeeze I found surprising, the second one strange, and by the third one I was crying. Zay immediately fell asleep in my arms.
I was suddenly wide awake.
Three squeezes to communicate “I love you” was the private language used between my mom and me. I had not shared this with my children or husband. Zay, while a deeply loving child, was never one to hold hands, except out of emergency. The evidence-based physician part of me thought this was surely a coincidence of a grieving mind looking for a sign. But as a human being sitting in the still night, it felt like a clear message of love from my mom saying, “Darling, please don’t worry about me. I’m okay. I’m still with you.”
I marvel at the enduring and mysterious bonds of love. The connections between us persist long after a person takes her final breath. We are emotionally and biologically linked through time in ways we don’t fully understand. There is an old saying that you start medical school saying “I don’t know” and leave saying “We don’t know.”
I’ve dedicated my career to understanding life, yet remain in awe of its mystery.’
What You’re Saying