Sharon Mangas, left, poses with her late mother-in-law, Carmen Mangas, center; and sister-in-law, Janet Mangas, right; at a celebration in December 2006.
The call came in at 4:00 a.m., waking me from a deep sleep. It was the kind of call that puts you on high alert; like when you have a teenage driver at home, or a mother-in-law on hospice care. No teenagers live in our house.
After struggling with my CPAP mask, I attempted to get my bearings. I answered the call, suspicious of what was coming. “Hello. Is this Sharon Mangas? I’m calling from the hospice center. I wasn’t able to reach Mike. I’m sorry to share this news…your mother-in-law, Carmen, passed away a few minutes ago.”
Mike had roused, woken by the call. He sat next to me, arm around my shoulders, listening. Deep down, we weren’t surprised—after all, Carmen was 95—but we still weren’t ready.
Carmen, like a cat with nine lives, had rallied back from serious health challenges countless times. She looked amazingly young and beautiful for her age. We had envisioned celebrating her 100th birthday with her. But within 35 hours of breaking a hip, she slipped away.
My first reaction was sorrow we weren’t with her when she passed, but I believe she wanted it that way. She was stoic, quiet, mannerly and never wanted to be a bother.
To the best of my knowledge, I was privy to her last spoken words to family. After Mike and I helped Carmen settle in at the Hospice Center near midnight Saturday, May 3—barely 24 hours before she passed—I bent over to tell her we’d see her in the morning. She looked deeply into my eyes and said, “I love you, Sharon.” I took her hand gently and said, “I love you, too.”
Love. Love your neighbor. God is Love. Love is all we need. “I love you, Sharon.”
As the first daughter-in-law in Carmen’s orbit, the two of us had occasional dust-ups and misunderstandings that challenged our family bond.
But we shared a lot of love, too, and love is healing. The two of us healed through love several times.
I didn’t realize those “I love you’s” would be the last words we shared, but during that brief exchange, love meant what it was meant to be—for both of us. We felt nothing but love for each other when we said our goodbyes. And right then, love offered forgiveness, too. Any grudges we held against each other melted away. Right then. What a gift.
Mike and I have now taken our places as the oldest generation, and we’re out of the job we’ve held for 28 years: overseeing the care of our three remaining parents (my father died in 1955.)
We started our caregiving journey in 1997, when my mother’s health began to fail. Our sons were still in high school then.
Shortly after my mother passed in 2005, we encouraged Mike’s parents to move to Columbus so we could help Mike’s mom. By then, my once brilliant father-in-law, Jack, was declining from dementia. After Jack passed in 2009, we turned our attention to helping Carmen.
Taking on that job for 28 years wasn’t always easy. Our sons, Russ and Ben, were rowdy teenagers when we started the journey, and now they’re both in their mid-forties.
But looking back, Mike and I wouldn’t change a thing. We chose our path, not only from a sense of family duty, but out of—you guessed it—love.
Life is brief. Whenever possible, choose love and aim for forgiveness.
Rest in the arms of heaven now, Carmen. Thank you for the gift of your life and your love.
