I Thought Losing Her Would Break Me

I spent my childhood afraid of losing her—never imagining how much that loss would reshape me.

My mom. Donna Payne. Donna Luckock first, then Donna Myers, then Payne. 

In a nutshell, I had an amazing relationship with my mother. We were very close, and I never wanted to disappoint her. Of course I did—that’s what children are supposed to do—but that feeling was always there, quietly sitting in the background.

She was loving and fun, with a sassy side that could stop you in your tracks with just one look. She was also my steady presence through all of my childhood health scares—calming me during asthma attacks, taking care of me when I missed so much school. I sometimes wonder how exhausting that must have been for her… how she probably needed a break more than she ever let on.

As I grew into adulthood, our bond only deepened. She became an even more important part of my life—supporting me as a mother, caring for her grandchildren, and walking alongside me in our shared faith. We went to the same church, volunteered together, led retreats together. We had some of the most meaningful spiritual experiences side by side.

And now I understand that being with her on her deathbed… was also one of them.

I had always been terrified of losing her. I wonder now if some part of me—something deeper, something beyond logic—knew I wouldn’t have her for my entire adult life.

She died at 72. I was 42 with two kids in middle school, a husband with seventeen years of marriage between us, and prior that year had just returned to the workforce after being a full-time stay-at-home mom for ten years.

It was September 2011. I had just left a parent meeting for my son’s transition into a new school—one of the top schools in Ohio—and my best friend and I were overwhelmed. We did what you do in those moments: we went for a cocktail to process it all.

That’s when my husband called.

The emergency room had called. My mom was there with severe abdominal pain.

Everything shifted.

I went straight to the hospital and found her in intense discomfort. At first, we thought it might be food poisoning or a virus. They placed her in the ICU simply because it was the only room available. That night, she told me to go home, get rest, and not rush back in the morning.

So I did.

I went back to her condo and cleaned up what she had left behind—evidence of how suddenly and violently her body had begun to fail.

The next morning, everything was different.

A team of doctors and nurses surrounded her bed. She looked like she was on the edge of death. I stood there dumbfounded witnessing the chaos and shocked thinking, “when I left her last night she did not look this bad! What in the hell is happening?!” I remember the pit in my stomach, my heart racing, as they gently escorted me out to the family waiting room while they worked on stabilizing her.

Later, I learned a medication error had caused respiratory distress. She survived that moment. I had immediately called my brother frantically requesting he come to Cincinnati for fear that I would not be able to do this alone. Something inside me knew that her situation was very serious and I had a feeling of impending doom.

But what followed were five and a half weeks of uncertainty—ICU to step-down unit, to rehab, back to the ER, into another ICU. A constant cycle of hope and fear, questions without answers. Every day, I showed up—supporting her, advocating for her, trying to understand what was happening.

Her body couldn’t recover from the damage. A gallstone had triggered necrotizing pancreatitis, destroying more than 80% of her pancreas.

Still, she remained conscious through much of it.

In those final days, my siblings and I were together—a sacred thing for our family. And I could see it brought her peace. We talked with her about her fears. We told her we supported her no matter what. That she was loved. That she had lived a beautiful life.

Something shifted after that.

The chaos softened.

And then came the final day.

I got the call early that morning. I needed to come—quickly.

When I walked into her room, I could see it in her eyes. Fear. Exhaustion. Knowing.

I had a quiet moment with her before they intubated her for the last time. I could see the frustration and almost submission in her eyes that she had had enough fighting. I looked in her in the eyes while holding her swollen and bruised hands and said, “mom, this is between you and God at this point. I love and support whatever decision you make.” And then I thanked her. Thanked her for being the perfect mother for me and our family. For giving our family so much love and nurturing and protection. I was able to tell her things that any loving child would want to tell their dying parent. It was a gift. She was the central figure or our family. The family of four that had to survive together when our father left our mom with 3 children under the age of eight.

My brother was driving 3 hours to get to the hospital and we were both able to be with her during the most critical hours of her life.

They told us she would need surgery, but before it could happen, the doctor pulled my brother and me aside and laid out the reality:

She could die on the way to surgery.
During surgery.
After surgery.
Or survive—with a life that would no longer resemble the one she loved.

We knew.

Without even needing to say it out loud—we knew.

That wasn’t the life she would want.

My sister, driving in from Virginia, agreed.

So we made the decision.

We stood around her bed—my brother, my aunt and mother’s sister, and a dear church friend—and we sang to her as they removed the breathing tube. I held her hand.

I couldn’t look at her face. I didn’t want that to be how I remembered her.

But I stared at her hand.

It was my hand.

The same structure. The same veins. The same quiet familiarity.

After they removed her breathing tube to make her more comfortable and prepare for her transition, the process went very quickly. She was ready to go, her body was tired, and the fight was over.

And I felt, in that moment, something I couldn’t yet explain. I’ve always believed her soul left before the machines confirmed it. She was finally at peace and able to breathe with ease. Just no longer with us.

Throughout the five and a half weeks she was in the hospital, every time I arrived or left, we always exchanged “I love you’s,” and she would respond, “I love you more.”

So when I stood at the foot of her bed alone with her after she passed, I whispered, “Well, mom. I love you more, and that it looks like I won because I got the last word.”

It sounds a little distorted, I know.

But my mom had a great sense of humor.

And she gave me that.

The worst fear of my childhood had come true.

My anchor. My compass. My best friend. My mother—was gone. It’s a feeling no one can fully describe until you have experienced if yourself. A deep ache, emptiness, something broken and missing inside. And yet, what surprised me most was what I didn’t feel.

I wasn’t angry with God.

There was a quiet acceptance that settled in—an understanding that if she had survived, her life would have been drastically different, and not the life she would have chosen. That knowing gave me peace in a way I never expected.

And somehow, even in the middle of losing her, there was beauty.

I felt deeply held by my friends and family. Supported in ways that carried me through moments I didn’t think I could endure. People reflected back to me about the strength of our family—how close we were as siblings, how we showed up for one another.

Even our church community felt it.

My mom had worked there. She was deeply loved by the staff and members of the church community.

Two days after she died, my brother suggested that our families – mom’s children and seven grandchildren – attend the Sunday service. Not because we had to—but because it felt important.

They needed to see us. To see that we were going to be okay. And in some way, we needed to show ourselves that too.

Looking back now, being with her through that entire process was a gift.

It was the hardest thing I have ever gone through.

And somehow, years later, I could see it differently.

I survived it. And more than that— it changed me.

I thought losing her would break me—what I didn’t know was that it would begin to open me.