Bidding My Mother Farewell

 Nov.1, 2021

For some reason, I have had such a hard time writing down my thoughts, feelings, and 

memories surrounding my mom’s Leukemia diagnosis, gradual decline in health, and eventual 

passing. It all started in the Summer. I had signed up for a class at the U of U and was planning 

to stay in Bountiful so I could attend the virtual class without interruption. Mom had gone in for a 

lumbar puncture after her hematology doc noticed a sudden drop in her platelets that he had 

been monitoring for years and years. They told her to expect a follow-up visit with him about a 

week after the LP. But one afternoon, as I was sitting in the basement listening to my class, I 

heard the phone ring. Mom and Dad were out of the house running errands somewhere. I 

muted my class and I answered the phone when I heard it was from the hematology office. I 

explained that I was Jean's daughter and she said that they got the results from the LP and they 

would like her to come in as soon as possible and could we be there tomorrow. I said yes, we 

would. When mom and dad got back, I went upstairs and explained what had happened. I knew 

it was likely not great news, and I saw the same look of concern on both of their faces that I was 

trying to hide from mine. I said I would definitely go with them.

   At Dr. Samuelson's office the next day, I sat with mom and dad as he came in with the results 

and explained to mom that it appears she had acute lymphocytic leukemia, and based on how 

many blasts were in her circulation, it didn't look good. He looked directly at mom and dad and 

explained that while clinicians are never great at prognosticating, he felt that she may have 

"only weeks to months left".  I immediately went numb.  Dad audibly gasped and mom's 

eyebrows raised in surprise. I looked at mom's face and I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I looked at 

dad's face and remembered seeing only shock and sadness. They spoke some more and he 

said that he would set up a meeting with cancer specialists over at Huntsman and they would 

review her results and consult with mom and dad as soon as they can. He was kind and 

compassionate and I could immediately see why mom and dad spoke so highly of this doctor.

 

      We walked back out to the car and as we were loading ourselves in it, Emily called. She was 

just finishing at work and was going to come and meet us at the doctor's if we were still there. 

She asked how the appointment went and all I could tell her was "It's bad, Emily. Real bad. 

Please just go straight to Bountiful and we'll meet you there and explain everything."

    On the drive home, mom was sitting in the back seat, dad was sitting in the passenger seat, I 

was driving. I recall thinking through everything and trying to figure out if there would be any 

medical treatments or chemotherapy regimens that would offer hope, or extend her life. I think 

we were all in shock. Mom quietly stated, "I guess I knew that it may be bad, but I thought I 

would have at least one more birthday, one more Thanksgiving, and one more Christmas."

    My heart squeezed at this expression, but I didn't cry. Why don't I ever cry? Is there 

something wrong with me?

   

       As soon as we got home, Emily was there and I told her the sad news. Then we decided 

that instead of calling everyone individually, we should just do a group zoom and let everyone 

know. So I sent out a group text to all the siblings and said that we had the results and that it 

was serious and that we were doing a zoom in 15 minutes and to please join if they could.

        That family zoom was a moment in history that changed the lives of all of us. Mom and 

Dad explained about the recent blood work that had been concerning and about her lumbar 

puncture and the results from it. Then when they got a little emotional, they told me to explain 

what we learned at the appointment. I tried my best to be professional and direct and explained 

that we were given the potential prognosis of "weeks to months" left to live. I recall hearing 

several audible gasps as well as hearing crying from several siblings as each one had a minute 

to ask questions or just express love. It was probably the shortest zoom I've ever been a part of. 

Also, the most impactful one. After the zoom, we decided to call Gayle on her phone and tell her 

directly, as she had been the only one who couldn’t join the zoom. (Busy mission presidents life 

and all.)  They also wanted me to tell her the details and I recall that she gasped at the news 

too.

     It was gut-punching each time we had to share it with someone new. We sat with mom and 

dad and made a plan about who we needed to notify. I felt so bad leaving the next day, but 

Emily was there to help, and soon Jennie was making plans to fly out and be here as well. The 

three of us had been working together over the last year or so on various legal matters as we 

(the three little girls) were appointed trustees of mom and dad's estate. Now our focus and 

concern as the “Three Little Trustees” took a whole new direction with a heavier gravity to it.

    I recall driving home to Idaho Falls and finally, alone, in the car, I began to cry. I let the tears 

flow, just thinking about how my mom's time on the Earth was limited and how I was driving 

AWAY from her. But I had a family of my own. A spouse and children who needed me to be 

around. I felt absolutely pulled in two directions.

I spent the next few weeks in a fog.

I wasn't able to come back down to be with them at the consultation with the Leukemia specialist, but 

they allowed me to listen in with my phone on mute. Uncle George went with them. I took as 

many notes as I could and I wanted to understand all of the options as well as where my mom 

and dad were at, mentally. It felt like they didn't see a whole lot of hope in what options were 

offered. The trade-offs would now be carefully weighed and considered: risk versus benefit as 

well as the burden of treatment versus quality of life. Over a few days more, mom decided 

definitively AGAINST pursuing any sort of chemotherapy or treatment and would simply enjoy 

her time left with the amazing quality of life she still enjoyed. Considering her age, her previous 

disease, her complete lack of energy and fragility, I was all for this option.

       I knew the benefits of Hospice care and wanted to encourage this option, but I also knew 

that I would face some of the same resistance within my own family as exists in the general 

public. There is such a lack of understanding of what Hospice care does for people. In general, 

patients and families always wait way too long before finally accepting this route. For several 

weeks, mom and dad were not ready for this option either. There was a lot of hope. Genuine 

hope. I applauded that hope. I had my own doubts, based on the numbers that would bounce all 

over the place in her CBCs. My main objective was to try and be as supportive as possible to 

mom and to dad during this ordeal.

    Having a knowledge of the plan of salvation does bring so much added peace to almost any 

situation, but it doesn't necessarily make it any easier. Over the following 6-8 weeks, mom's 

health steadily declined. Dad would ask me questions about mom's situation or mom's 

prognosis almost every time we talked. He was not only concerned for her well-being, but I think 

he also needed some sort of a time frame to be able to mentally handle it. I tried so many times 

to explain that nobody can really know. That every patient responds differently. That guessing 

wouldn't help anything.

 

     Mom seemed to accept her fate with a grace and dignity that didn't surprise any of us. She 

lived her entire life this way. One of her friends (that John visited when he was in Hawaii with his 

family) said something about mom that stuck with me. She said that "Jean is getting the death 

she deserves based on the good life she lived." This is something that I hadn't ever thought 

about, and I am not sure that I still wholly believe this concept. I know of many who are great 

people and who live great lives but still have a very difficult or even traumatic death. But I liked 

the thought and felt that in mom's situation it did seem a "fitting death" if that was even a thing.

 

     We eventually got started on Hospice with Rocky Mountain Hospice and the nurse assigned 

to mom was Shauna. She was a little quiet but very kind and compassionate with mom. There 

were a few moments of frustration with the Hospice when things would be would forgotten,

but overall we were pleased with their service and attention to mom. They tried to accommodate the

demands and desires of our crazy large family, and always kept me in the loop medically.

     At one point as it was getting close to the pre-scheduled time for our Family Reunion in 

August, we realized mom wouldn’t be able to travel. She was getting weaker and weaker and 

she did not like to be far away from her own bathroom/bedroom. So Jennie and Tom, who were 

in charge of the reunion, changed plans. They canceled the location reservation in Island Park, 

Idaho, and instead we all searched for something closer to home. We found a VRBO in Salt 

Lake that could accommodate all of us. Even though it was just the 11 kids and their spouses, it 

was one of the best family reunions ever. We decided to surprise mom by celebrating each of 

those holidays that she mentioned she’d be missing on the day of her diagnosis. We did her 

birthday celebration early, then the next day we celebrated Thanksgiving, and the next day we 

celebrated Christmas. There was a family picture recreation complete with our famous 

numbered shirts. Mom and dad were both very happy throughout those 3 days together with all 

of their children. We did a temple sealing session together at the Bountiful temple and I don’t 

recall ever seeing mom have more joy on her face as she did in that room on that day. It was 

the best birthday present I have ever had. I will remember it forever.

    Mom did live to celebrate her actual birthday.

She went in for a few more blood tests as well 

as received 2 blood transfusions at LDS hospital in SLC. The first one she chose to get in order 

to have enough extra energy to make it to the temple on July 22 for Brett Garner’s sealing. The 

second one she did in an attempt to gain enough energy to make it to the aforementioned 

reunion. I had the privilege of being with her during both of those transfusions. The first one took 

about 4 hours, but the second one took nearly seven! It was hard to see mom sitting in that fairly 

uncomfortable chair for so long. I helped her as much as possible, but she was still fiercely 

independent in her self-cares.

      During the first transfusion, I got us some soup and sandwiches from the café downstairs 

and she had a great appetite and ate it all. She even wanted a chocolate shake, so I asked 

them to make one for her with the chocolate ice cream they had and she enjoyed it. I talked very 

openly to mom about her feelings and desires. I asked if we were smothering her and dad and if 

she needed some alone time. She was gracious as always about our constant visiting.

    On the second transfusion, I went downstairs again and got us some soup and we ate it and I 

talked with mom about what some of her favorite scripture stories were and why. Mostly we 

talked about the stones that the Brother of Jared asked the Lord to turn to light, and how much 

she loves that story. This was one of the 3 stories that she wanted me and Jennie to share 

about at her funeral. Later I wrote about that story and why mom loved it and that was the talk 

that I shared at her funeral.  

       Towards the end of September, mom was noticeably weaker each day. It’s really true that 

you can measure a “total overall decline” in just how much she walked. It went from daily walks 

down the street and back, to walking only 3 houses down and back, to walking only three 

houses down and getting driven back, to walking only around the yard, to walking only inside 

the house, to walking only from her bed to the bathroom to the front room, to using the walker, to

going for a ride in the wheelchair.

      Throughout the last months, she was dealing with her annoying hacking cough. She had 

struggled with a cough for years, but in the final weeks, it became very meddlesome with her 

comfort. We tried a bunch of different treatments recommended by the hospice medical director, 

but that cough would just not leave her alone. It was that cough and those coughing fits/spells 

that alerted us to her needs at night. For at least the last month of her life, there was always a 

daughter staying overnight with mom and dad. Most nights it was at least two. Maddy Powell 

and then Sadie moved into the basement. The daughters would sleep upstairs. Jennie came 

from Arizona and stayed for quite a while. I came from Idaho as often as I could, even though 

this was really hard on our budget of gas and on Greg to have me gone so much. The Utah girls 

came as much as they could and I was both happy they were there and jealous when I was not.

     It was a lot of daily managing of visitors, hospice employees coming to help, ward members 

bringing food or treats, and then there was the weekly family zoom. We instituted it part-way 

through mom’s diagnosis so that all of the children and the grandchildren could spend time 

visiting with mom and dad. I hope this tradition continues because it will help to keep us all a bit 

more connected. And that is what mom was always about - the relationships and preserving 

them.

      At first, all of the attention that came mom’s way was flattering and well-deserved. But after a 

while, mom would mention things like “It sure has been nice to have everyone visit. To say 

goodbye to so many people. But yet I am still just here.” It must have been frustrating to be told 

that you would likely die in a few weeks, only to have those weeks turn into months. Looking 

back, we are all so grateful for the 3 and a half months that we had with mom. And relationships 

with her own children were strengthened and polished. And mom got to plan all of the details of 

her funeral and she even gave all the input on what she wanted on her headstone design. It’s 

not that often that people get to be so intimately involved in the planning and the details of their 

own passing. But mom was classy like that. And at her funeral, there were so many compliments 

about how wonderful the program was. Dad would just say “Well, it’s all because Jean planned 

it out herself.” So true!

     When I learned of mom’s diagnosis and studied more about Leukemia and how it would likely be 

at the end of her life, I knew one thing for sure. I knew that there would come a point where she 

would be struggling for breath, for air. I understood this from a medical standpoint, but I also 

understood this from a personal standpoint. When I first got asthma as a young teenager, I had 

no idea how it would impact me. But throughout years of asthma exacerbations and attacks, I 

would puff down my inhaler full of albuterol and anxiously strain to get a good breath. Forget a 

deep breath, I just wanted to feel like I was getting ANY breath in. It was agonizing and scary. 

There were several times when I would just freak out and feel like I was literally dying. Mom 

would sit on the orange couch in the front room and let me lie down with my head on her lap 

and she would shush me and calm me and would rub her hands on my forehead and reassure 

me that I would be ok and that I just needed to relax, to breathe.

     

    Somewhere deep in my heart, I knew that our roles would soon be reversed. I knew that at 

some point, as she was approaching the doors of death, she would then be struggling to breathe, 

to get air. I have witnessed this event take place when others have departed from mortality. I 

just prayed that my little “flash vision” of me stroking mom’s hair on her forehead when she was 

struggling to breathe would actually happen. That I wouldn’t be in Idaho and get the call that she 

had died. I knew that this was a very real possibility, but I also felt strongly that I would be 

allowed the sacred privilege of that “reversal of roles” moment in my life.

     That moment came a few weeks ago. I have been working exclusively at Urgent Care for 

the last several months and working 2 days per week. It has worked out well so that I could 

work those days and then come down to Bountiful to be with mom and dad. On October 7th I 

came down. I knew that mom had been weak and not hardly walking anywhere and that she 

was requiring more and more oxygen to maintain her sats. It, like the decline in walking and 

moving independently, had gradually gotten to complete oxygen dependence.

At first, mom was too prideful to wear the oxygen. As if she was stronger than her disease and she 

would stare at the oximeter and just will it up over 90. The truth is, I think that mom had been 

living at around 88% for several years. Her body was already adjusting to the lack of healthy, 

competent, red blood cells that could do their job of carrying oxygen around. I brought down a 

little portable oxygen concentrator that we borrowed from the Longs and she would wear it to 

help her feel a little better. She started at only 1 liter and that number steadily increased until 

she was at nearly the max. She also slept with oxygen from the large concentrator dad kept in 

their office. We got some really long tubing and she left it there for her nighttime sleep.  

     Somewhere before she got that high on the portable concentrator, she had already started 

on Hospice and they brought in oxygen tanks that we could more easily haul around for her. 

They were also much less noisy than the machines. One funny thing that happened was on the 

day we celebrated her birthday, someone grabbed a lighter to light the candles and we didn’t 

even think about it, until mom’s face was an inch away from the sparks flying from the lighter 

and she pulled back and said: “Woah - maybe we shouldn’t have an open flame around my 

oxygen!” We all jumped up at the realization of the dangerous situation we were all complicit in 

creating, and how mom just saved herself from a potential disaster! We got a great picture of 

mom’s face laughing hysterically at the situation she averted! During the last week of her life, mom 

was requiring upwards of 4 liters per minute of oxygen just to maintain her sats and to feel like 

she could breathe. She got to the point where she would eagerly put the oxygen on herself and 

do this quickly when changing from one oxygen source to another.  She ended up maxing out 

the tanks as high as they would go and then we were burning through them so fast. We finally 

asked hospice to get us a concentrator that would go higher, and we had her running at 8 liters 

on it at night.

   

    On October 7th, when I got to Bountiful, mom was just sitting in her chair (we bought her a 

lazy boy automatic recliner and it was such a good buy for her). She was just looking so worn 

out. She was on 6 liters on the tank and there was a pile of 16 oxygen tanks next to her lazy boy 

recliner in the family room. I tried to get mom to wear the non-rebreather mask so that we could 

get her up to a higher oxygen concentration. This worked for a little bit, but she just didn’t like 

the feel of having the mask on her face. Too claustrophobic of a feeling, I imagine. That 

morning, her oxygen had dropped to 59% in just seconds when we were changing out from one 

oxygen tank to another. It was alarming indeed to see those numbers. Something told me that 

mom was getting close.

   

      The next day, October 8th, there was quite a bit of family at the home. Marilyn and Matt 

were here and Sadie and Maddy were here and Liz was also here. Gayle and Jane and Emily 

were here throughout the entire day, and Nancy and I were sharing the upstairs room to help 

with mom’s care at night. Gayle’s son Noah and his friends had just flown into town and they 

came over and brought some yummy soup for us all to have lunch together. We obviously didn’t 

know it, but that bowl of creamy cauliflower soup from Zupas would be the last meal mom would 

ever eat.  Gayle was getting ready to leave with her family in the afternoon when we put mom 

and dad down for a nap. She asked me if I thought that she would be ok to go on a trip that 

weekend that she already had planned with Craig. I knew what she was asking, but I hesitated 

to respond. I had already been so surprised by how mom had rallied, how she defied the odds 

with her physical and mental strength. I told her that she would probably be fine.

 

      Earlier in the day, I told Nancy and Jane that we should get a new walker from the basement 

for mom to use that had a seat on it. She used it for a total of fewer than 24 hours. But she did sit 

on that seat, in the front hallway, to listen to Noah play a beautiful song on the piano. When she 

woke up from her nap, mom had another “episode” where her sats dropped way too low, way 

too fast. It honestly freaked me out. I kept this freak-out inside. But I texted Shauna about my 

concerns with mom. She wrote back that she did feel like based on what she had seen that 

morning as well as what I was texting her, that mom was entering the beginning of the “pre-active” 

phase of the dying process, and to text her if we needed anything or just wanted her to come. I 

told her we would. I thought that mom was actually in the “active” phase at this point. For some 

context, in medical terms, the “pre-active” phase usually lasts around 2-3 weeks, while the 

“active” phase of dying generally lasts 2-3 days.

   Nancy and I got some of mom’s essential oils and rubbed her feet. She loved this. I loved 

doing it for her. This was the second time I got to do this for her. I know that other sisters also 

took the time to rub mom’s feet in the days prior to her passing. While we rubbed in the oil, I 

couldn't help but think of someone else, who rubbed the feet of those He loved, and how mom 

would get to meet that someone really soon. 

     The family was playing games at the big, round table. We asked mom if she wanted to go to 

bed early since it was kinda loud. She said that she wanted to stay there. That she enjoyed 

listening to her family having fun. I was sitting near mom’s feet and dad was sitting across from 

me, against the wall, close to mom. I had a distinct impression that I knew didn’t come from 

myself. It was too powerful of a thought. So I just said to dad, “What if instead of reading 

scriptures tonight, we have mom and you get priesthood blessings?” He didn’t take long to 

respond that he thought it would be a great idea. He asked mom if she wanted a blessing and 

she said yes. Dad asked Matt to anoint mom and then dad sealed the anointing on her head 

with an absolutely wonderful blessing of peace. In it, he mentioned that October was a 

significant month and that she would soon be finishing her mortal mission and moving on. Ben 

Tingey was there too and Dad asked Ben to bless him. He spoke quietly and I was unable to 

hear everything he said, but I felt a lot of peace as he blessed him.  After the blessings were 

done, I was crying soft tears.

    Many people finished visiting and we got mom into her bathroom and she actually let me and 

Emily and Nancy help her in there to get her nightgown on. She chose a simple plain white silky 

gown. Emily lifted her up and held onto her little frail body in a tender way - unbeknownst to 

Emily at that moment, it was a final embrace from mom to her baby. Mom had taken her dose of 

nightly morphine and we walked her into her room and did our nightly routines with her, 

including making sure that she had enough oxygen on. We actually tried to get her to sleep with 

2 sources of oxygen on, both the mask and the nasal cannula. It didn’t seem comfortable, but 

she needed it and let it be. She was very sleepy, yet she was still rubbing her essential oils into 

her chest, as she always did. I tried to tell her that she had enough on her already, but she kept 

dousing it on, almost dripping it into the sunken pits of her upper chest. Hours later I would 

realize that she was, in a way, anointing her own body with oils pre-mortem. We tucked her, and 

dad, into bed. We said we loved them and walked out of the room.

     After visiting for a while, Emily and Jane left to go home since it was getting so late. Many 

people went downstairs, Sadie went to lay down on the couch in the front room, and Nancy 

went to the back bathroom to get ready for bed. I had my pajamas on and had just brushed my 

teeth. I said my prayers and got into bed. I left the bathroom light on in our room for mom, since 

I knew she would likely be getting up in a few hours to use the bathroom. As I lay there in bed, I 

had a brief and frank pleading with God. I was so tired, but I told Him that I really needed Him to 

alert me to any of mom’s needs as I knew she was getting ever closer to death and I wanted to 

be there for her to support her and help her in any way I could.

    I closed my eyes for what felt like 2 minutes and was in that hazy moment of in-between 

awake and sleep. Then I heard mom cough. It wasn’t a very loud cough, such as we had all 

grown accustomed to in the past weeks. It wasn’t a very long coughing fit that we were all 

familiar with. But it was a quiet cough. For some reason (which I know was the Holy Ghost 

telling me to get up) I bolted right up in bed and jumped out in one singular motion. I ran into 

mom and it was dark but I could see she was trying to sit up. I turned on the light in her hallway. 

I looked around for help as soon as I saw her face. She stretched her arms straight up and out 

to me in desperation, as if to say “Help me, I can’t breathe!” But she couldn’t really talk. Her 

eyes did all the talking. Her beautiful eyes were so big and so scared. I saw that she was trying 

to pull off her nasal cannula. She was anxious and struggling. I placed the cannula and the 

mask back on her. I grabbed the oximeter and placed it on her finger. I asked if she was short of 

breath and she nodded and semi-gasped. I asked if she wanted me to get the fan for her to 

blow it on her face to help with that feeling. She nodded again.

      Dad was still asleep right next to her. He was used to these coughing spells and was able to 

continue sleeping. I didn’t want to yell out and wake him and startle him, so I told mom that I 

was going to quickly grab the fan and that I would be right back. Instead, I just went as fast as I 

could around the corner from their hallway and said in an emergent tone to Sadie: “Sadie! 

Please get up, I need help right now!” She came right over and I told her to grab the fan and 

bring it in. I was already back at mom’s side and glanced down at the oximeter which was 

registering in the 40s. This was the moment that I positively knew that mom was dying. Like, 

right now. Right there, in front of me. My mother was about to die. I told Sadie to hurry and grab 

Nancy and tell her to come quickly. To tell her that it was serious. Sadie was so helpful and did 

everything I asked her to do in this scary moment. Nancy came to my side as soon as she could 

and together we tried to get mom an additional source of oxygen. She had 2 concentrators and 

a tank of “blow-by” as we desperately tried to get her as much more air as we could. I shook 

dad’s shoulder, he was asleep facing the other way. He turned in bed and looked over at mom 

and looked at me. I said to him “Dad, it's mom. She is leaving.” He knew. He turned over and 

had a look of helplessness on his face as he realized how severe it was. She was struggling so 

hard. I had told Sadie, as soon as she came back with Nancy, to hurry downstairs and go get 

anyone who wanted to come up, to tell them that mom was actively dying. Sadie went right away.

I asked Nancy to get some morphine to help ease mom’s desperate shortness of breath.

I said to grab my phone and text Shauna and tell her that mom was dying, that she was in an agonal 

breathing pattern. She did that.

 

    As all of the siblings came up from downstairs, looking both surprised and scared, they 

surrounded our parent's bed as closely as they could. I was grateful to have all that love 

surrounding mom and dad in this sacred and special moment. I looked back down at the 

oximeter still on mom’s finger, and it read in the low 30s. Nancy was still holding some of the 

blow-by oxygen from the tank towards her face. I can’t remember if I told her or if she just 

realized it herself. But soon we quickly took the oximeter off of her finger, stopped the blow-by 

and since it was completely futile, we gently removed the nasal cannula and the mask so that 

she didn’t have to fight it anymore. So that dad could see her beautiful face and so that she 

could see all the faces surrounding her. I asked Sadie to get my stethoscope and she brought it 

to me. I rubbed her forehead gently. I listened to her heart, it was racing faster than I’m sure it 

had ever done in 87+ years of beating. It was going over 170 and I knew it wasn’t going to be 

able to do that for very long.  I was amazed at how “with it” mom was, considering the absolute 

lack of oxygen to her brain. What a tender mercy.

     Dad was beginning to weep. As were all of us. He was holding onto her and telling her he 

loved her. She had her head turned toward me, likely seeking air, so I used both of my hands to 

manually turn her head towards dad so she could look at him as she left. I kept stroking her hair 

off of her forehead and thinking of how much I loved her and how much I was going to miss her. 

I kept repeating “It’s OK. I love you. We love you.” That same refrain echoed from all in the 

room. Dad looked directly into her face and told her it was ok and that he loved her. She tried 

with everything in her to repeat that back to him. Then, she took one more agonal breath, and I 

had my stethoscope to her chest, listening to the galloping heart. Then it just stopped. It was 

totally and completely quiet. I looked at my watch and saw the time: “11:38 pm”. I looked at dad 

and shook my head and told him “She’s gone.” He kissed her and grabbed onto her and just 

held her and sobbed. My heart silently cried out “Ai auae” and in that very instant, dad audibly 

and loudly cried out “Ai auae!”. I began to sob. All around me were sobbing. It was such a sad, 

tender, sacred, horrible, and beautiful moment of shared grief. Watching dad sob in that manner 

was one of the hardest things I have ever witnessed. I gently pushed mom’s eyes closed.

      I told Sadie to text Shauna and tell her that mom passed at 11:38pm. Then I had her text the 

rest of the siblings that mom had died. We all wiped our faces and we left the room to give dad 

some alone time with mom. Emily and Jane came back. Gayle came back. Sue was on her way. 

We stood in the hallway in front of the front door and the big mirror and just held each other in a 

circle and cried and cried together. We called Jennie to tell her the news. She was in Hawaii 

and she cried in grief and sorrow that she wasn’t there with us. We couldn’t get hold of Tom or 

John. Finally, I called Bev’s cell phone - it was after midnight at this point, and I just told her “Is 

John there? Mom just died.” She handed the phone to him and I told him the sad news and he 

audibly gasped and just said “What happened?” I remember feeling like I wanted to snap at him 

like I wanted to say “What do you mean, what happened? She had leukemia and she just died!” 

But I didn’t, I knew this was a question asked in shock. I just told him that she woke up coughing 

and struggling to breathe and that she had not suffered long and that she was gone. We tried 

several times to get hold of Tom, but he didn’t answer. I had to tell him in a voicemail, and a 

text, that our mom was gone.

   After several minutes, dad came out to the family room in his robe, to join the rest of the 

family. He sat down and joined us all as we cried and talked about who and how to notify 

people. Shauna got there and she hugged some of us and I walked her into the bedroom and 

started talking with her about what had happened. I told her of the events leading up to and 

including the time of her death. I stood at mom’s head on the side of the bed and she was at the 

foot of the bed and we started talking about post-mortem cares for mom’s body. I told her there 

honestly wasn’t much to do at this point. Besides her wedding ring, she had no earrings or 

jewelry to remove, no dentures, and no tubes to pull from any orifices. I slipped her wedding band 

and ring off of her finger and handed it to Sadie and told her to please place it directly in dad’s 

hands. Shauna tried to force mom’s lower jaw into a shut-mouth position.  She asked about 

changing her garments, and I knew exactly what she meant, but I told her that mom had literally 

prepared her body for death herself without knowing it. (Or maybe she did?) She had actually put

essential oils on her chest.

While Shauna began to fill out the paperwork, I pulled the blanket up to her neck and as 

her body laid there in a perfectly peaceful and still manner, I couldn’t help but continue to stare 

at her chest, just looking for one more rise. One more breath. This was a nonsensical thing for 

me to be thinking. I knew she was gone. But it was something I couldn’t stop doing. Staring. At 

her lifeless chest. Just watching for that last breath. That last breath that I had already watched 

her take 20 minutes ago.

    The funeral home was notified by Shauna before she left. She told them that we were waiting 

for some more family members to arrive to say goodbye before they took her. So after about an 

hour, we finally called them and they said that they were waiting to hear from us when we were 

ready. We still hadn’t gotten ahold of Tom, but John had come and the rest of us were there, so 

we told them it was time to get her. 

     They came in their Sunday bests, and ever-so-compassionately explained the procedure for 

collecting and transporting her body to the morgue. We said our final goodbyes and dad began 

sobbing again. And so did the rest of us. As they were about to go outside into the chilly night 

air, they calmly pulled the shroud over her face and head and went out the front door. With my 

mom. On a gurney. In a beautiful red velvet bag. I followed them through the little white gate 

and as mom’s mortal body took its last ever stroll in front of her beloved rose bushes. As they 

were approaching the vehicle, I asked them to hold on a second. I reached over and plucked 

one of the last 2 white roses that were on the bush, and I placed it on her chest area and said “I 

love you, mom!” And they loaded her up into the back of the van and shut the doors and drove 

off. I slowly walked back into my childhood home with my mourning family and shut the front 

door.

   After a little while of crying and visiting and figuring out where everyone was going to sleep, 

my dad shared some of his meaningful visions that he was granted shortly after mom departed. It 

was sweet and spiritual and filled with lots of love. I am so grateful that he was granted that gift 

and that he seems to be granted an ongoing gift of communication of spirit with mom on the 

other side. We didn’t manage to get a lot of sleep after that point, but we did get a little. I stayed 

for one more day to help figure out some of the logistical things, and then I drove home. It was 

emotional again, driving to Idaho and leaving my family in Utah at a time such as this. But I had 

a shift to work at the Urgent Care. I got flowers that day from Letty. What a sweet friend. I got 

many texts and people stopped by and brought things. A few more flowers came as well, from 

Just 4 Kids, from the Relief Society, and from Toni Hunt. So many thoughtful gestures that 

made me feel a little less invisible at this lonely time in my heart.  

    The following hours and days after that were kind of a blur. A blur of emotions consisting of 

sadness, jealousy, fear, relief, anxiety, love, sometimes anger, and mostly a feeling of 

emptiness. Mom had already planned so much of the funeral program herself, so the siblings 

spent their time gathering items to display in the gym; getting the program printed, and then 

reprinted once we found out that President Eyring would be coming to preside; talking about 

mom; answering questions about mom; eating all of the many gifts of food that were being 

brought over each day. There is something to be said about mom and dad’s Bountiful ward - 

and that is the fact that they are super kind and generous and they are super good at funerals. 

Imagine feeding a family the size of the Groberg's! I feel blessed to not only have a place to call 

my childhood “home” but also a place that I know my parents are looked after. 

      On Thursday afternoon, all of the daughters went to the funeral home to help dress mom’s 

body in her temple robes. Dad also wanted to come and to have some time to spend with her. 

Mom looked beautiful. They had her make-up done perfectly so she looked natural like she 

always had without makeup on. Steve Butters had done a great job doing her hair. I reached out 

to touch her hands. She was so cold. All nine of us girls gathered around her on the dressing 

table. We gently rolled her to the side so we could tuck the necessary parts of her robes 

underneath. Mom was happy at that moment. We decided to place her wedding band back on her 

finger, it was a little snug, but we got it on there. Then I took a picture of all of our hands 

surrounding hers. There was something symbolic and almost poetic in that notable contrast. 

The contrast of the cold, paper-white, sinewy skin of her aged, hard-worked, and wizened hands 

in comparison to the pink, pulsatile, warm, vibrant hands of her 9 daughters. It was like a 

snapshot of how she gave her very life so that we could have ours. 

     Thursday night, the 14th of October, the Tongan community held an Ā Pō for mom. This is 

essentially translated as a “wake”, but it is more of a memorial/viewing. Instead of just walking 

by the casket and hugging family members, as Americans do, it was a full-fledged program. We 

did have the mortuary bring mom’s casket which was open for the audience to see her, but 

everyone sat down and just listened to various speakers and choirs. There were many VIPs 

from the Tongan community and they had it broadcast live to the Kingdom of Tonga. My 

friend Sara, from work, even drove down to it with her girls. I thought that was so very kind of 

her to do. The program was beautiful and when those Tongan choirs start singing, that is the 

end of my dry eyes. There was an official proclamation read from the Princess in Tonga about 

how the entire Island Nation was mourning the passing of their “mother Jean” and how the Earth 

was made more beautiful and whole in her presence. It was absolutely beautiful. 

     Greg and the kids all came and they stayed at Oma’s house (Zach’s grandmother) and I 

stayed with dad and Emily and others in Bountiful. This arrangement worked out well for the 

days of the wake, the viewing, and the funeral. So generous of Oma to allow my family to stay 

there. Almost all of the 44 living grandchildren were able to come to the funeral. So many 

friends and family drove and flew long distances to be there to show support. It was an amazing 

outpouring of love. The displays turned out beautifully in the cultural hall. One thing that dad 

wanted each of us to do was to wear a name tag that said our first name and our number - of

which child we were. So mine said “Viki - 10”. At first, I was thinking that this was a little odd, but 

Jane and I went to the craft store and found the supplies and she put them together and they 

turned out to be one of the best things about the viewing/funeral. We got so many comments on 

those tags and they really helped people to know which ones we were! 

   The viewing on Friday the 15th went well. Lots of people came, but not as many as we had 

potentially anticipated. Several of the 12 and the 70 came as well as some members from the 

General Presidencies, such as Jean Bingham. More than anything, it was great to see family 

that traveled to be there with us in our grief. The Kinikini family spontaneously broke out into 

song in the room with mom’s casket when I was standing there with Uncle John Sabin. They 

sang “Love at Home” in Tongan and it brought me to tears again. 

    Saturday morning was another short viewing prior to the funeral. They kept setting up chairs 

all the way to the back of the cultural hall at the Stake Center and I thought to myself that there 

was no way they would all be filled. But I was proved wrong as I later saw the size of the crowd. 

As the pre-funeral viewing ended, Emily said the most beautiful ‘family prayer’ that I have ever 

heard. It was so lovely. I cried a lot. We placed mom’s veil on her head, said our final farewells 

to her beautiful face, then closed and locked the casket. We then proceeded into the 

chapel, trailing her coffin which was covered in a gorgeous array of flowers. 

     The funeral went exactly as planned. Mom wanted it to be no longer than 70 minutes, and 

we planned for exactly that. There are copies of the family letter from October circulating in our 

family now - this consists of every word from the Funeral program from our family -  in print. So 

grateful to have that now for posterity to look at and read in the future. Me and Jennie spoke 

about mom’s favorite scripture stories and then we all sang “He sent His son” from the primary 

book, among other talks/numbers. Then dad got up to talk and when he sat down, I looked at 

the clock and it was exactly noon. The funeral had begun promptly at 11 am and it was a little 

moment of pride to see that we did it in an hour. I knew mom would be happy with that. Then 

Pres. Eyring got up and he spoke from his heart. He did a great job, spoke for at least 15 

minutes, sharing some stories about his interactions with mom and dad earlier in life as well as 

his feelings about his own wife. It was tender and sweet. 

     After the funeral procession exited the building, there was much visiting and hugging, and 

picture-taking. I shook Pres. Eyrings’ hand and he grasped mine as I thanked him for coming, 

and his security detail escorted him out. Finally, we all drove down to the Bountiful Cemetery and 

there Tom beautifully dedicated the gravesite and we all sang “Families Can Be Together Forever”.

We then pulled out a large piece of tapa cloth that Emily and Jennie had pre-cut and we draped it 

over her coffin and then laid the spray of flowers back on top of it. It was a significant moment. 

Later dad would share with us, through his own tears, how he heard mom’s voice clearly saying 

“Thank you for the Tapa” in that moment.

We took lots of photos with family at the gravesite and then we loaded up and drove away from the cemetery and back to their home 

ward building to enjoy some food that the ward had prepared for the family luncheon. Talk about 

a TON of funeral potatoes and ham. Impressive. 

     Greg and the kids loaded up and returned to Idaho after that. But I just couldn’t pull myself 

away from Bountiful yet. Greg supported me in staying there one more day. I slept upstairs with 

Emily and the two of us tried to get as many of the “medical” things of moms put away as we could.

But every time I looked at the bathroom door, I was half-waiting to hear mom coughing in there, or 

for her to just open the door and walk out with her oxygen tubing on. I think I went into mom and 

dad’s bedroom at least 4 times just to sit on her bed.  

  

    Sunday morning, less than 24 hours after he buried his wife, my dad slowly walked up to the 

pulpit on Fast Sunday to bear his testimony. He told some of the last moments he had with her 

as she was dying, and some of the beautiful visions of mom on the other side of the veil at her 

arrival there. He shared a powerful testimony of the Savior and of eternal promises if we only 

keep our covenants as she did.  It was odd to sit in Relief Society again -  it has been so 

many years and years of Primary and YW for me that I still don’t quite feel “at home” in RS. But 

at least I had so many of my literal sisters to sit with in there. Then we went home and I began 

to pack up and say goodbye and I drove back home to Idaho Falls. 

      I stayed here in Idaho Falls for several days, but then I went back this last week to help work 

on several items in the house and to basically be with dad and help him with checking off 

several items on his “To Do” list. He is getting really good at making those every day. But I do 

worry about him. I worry that he may feel suffocated by all of the family constantly hovering 

around him, grandkids living with him. But I also worry that if there aren’t enough people at his 

beckoning, then he will feel even more helpless and alone. I worry that he is getting forgetful, 

and getting very unsteady and wobbly. There is a loss of not only companionship in mom but 

also someone who was his constant support, secretary, cook, etc. I wonder what his future will 

look like, and what my role in it will be. He used to call me nearly every day, or every other day, 

just to ask questions about mom’s health status or change in condition. Now, it feels like I only 

talk to him once a week - if that. I need to be better about just calling and checking in, but I don’t want 

him to feel like I am “checking in” on him all the time. He will be fine. It just feels like such a 

weird moment in life for Greg and me, and I want to be a support and an advocate for him in any 

way I can. 

  

     I am grateful for Greg and for all of the support that he has given me over these last  

months of drastic change and tumultuous emotions. I sometimes look at the love between my 

parents and think that it isn’t real. That there is no such thing as marriage as strong as theirs 

is. I compare myself and my marriage and I wonder if my own relationship will ever be half as 

strong as theirs was. I hope to work all the rest of my life to make it so. 

     It is weird to feel like I am half-orphaned now. I hope that I can continue to stay on the path 

that I know my mom was on her entire life- and that is the path of discipleship - that of striving to 

love others like Jesus did. I know that this is the only way that I will get to live with her again one 

day. Thank you, mom, for teaching me through your own life, how to walk in His light. I love 

you.