The Toughest Angel Message I’ve Ever Received

When my mother was 12, she was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s. She underwent rounds of chemo and eventually went into remission. My mother didn’t talk much about that time in her life. I think the toll of treatment – and the entirety of the experience – may have been harder on her than she wanted to admit.

Fast-forward to this past spring – May of 2022, to be exact. She had a pain in her abdomen. We were concerned, of course, but she always had pains, illnesses, complications, etc. throughout her adult life. And she’s always pulled through. She was the person who also seemed to catch the cold first. The person who got the flu multiple times in a season.

But the pain didn’t dissipate. My mom tried to ignore it…brush it aside. She didn’t want to go to the doctor. Looking back, I think she knew.

By July, the pain had gotten so bad she couldn’t catch her breath. My mother had no choice but to see her doctor. After an initial misdiagnosis (oops, it’s actually not pancreatic cancer) and a trip to the emergency room, she received her diagnosis: lymphoma.

The doctors performed a biopsy to determine the specific type of lymphoma. Before the results came back, my mother made her decision: she wasn’t going to pursue treatment of any kind. At 72 years old, she said she didn’t have it in her to go through chemo again. I tried to explain that today’s treatments are different from what she experienced in the ‘60s. She had her mind made up. I wish she would’ve reconsidered, but I respected her decision.

In a matter of 2 weeks, everything changed. My mom went from diagnosis to at-home hospice care. She was told she had between 4-6 months.

We had a few weeks of okay-ness. I didn’t realize at the time that these were the “good days.” Things progressed fast…way too fast.

Everything became a blur of the first firsts. Needing a walker. Then a wheelchair. Then being bed bound.

And a blur of the last lasts. Her last autumn. Her last time petting her cats. Her last time saying my name.

Even the hospice nurse admitted that the cancer was progressing much faster than she thought it would.

As the days pressed on, more and more of my mom started to slip away. She was getting more confused. More tired. More out of sorts. One of the hardest parts was watching her in pain; it never seemed to lose its grip. That was one of my mom’s biggest fears throughout all of this: the pain. The nurse – and the morphine – never seemed to be able to keep up.

At the beginning of November my brother drove down to visit my mother. That weekend, my sister came into town to see her.

That’s when it happened. I got a sign. A message.

All throughout my mother’s illness, I had been asking “how long?” “How much time is left?” I’m not even sure why it mattered so much to know this, but, for me, it did.

That night while I slept, I heard it. A familiar voice in the darkness. It said:

“The door has closed. Seven days after your sister leaves your mother will pass.”

It played on a loop all night while I slept. Over and over for hours. Repeating the same message.

I recognized the voice as my Guardian Angel. When my Guardian Angel *really* wants to make sure I receive a message, he’ll speak more loudly...literally. For me, at that moment, he had given me an answer to my questions.

The message wasn’t an easy one to receive. But it didn’t scare me. Instead, it filled me with a sense of calm. Peace. Even relief. Her pain would finally come to an end.

The next day, my sister left for home. My mother continued to slip further and further. Slept more and more. The house became so quiet. My father and I never heard her voice again, only the loud hum of her oxygen machine. She did give me a slight wave during one of my visits. And for that I’m grateful.

By Friday, she was a shadow of herself. I held her hand, told her I loved her and that tomorrow was the day.

My mother passed away the next day on Saturday, November 12th – 7 days after my sister left at exactly 7 a.m.

Has anyone else had an experience like this? Let me know in the comments.

With love and light,

Hope