In August, my mother and I had planned a trip to Copenhagen. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel well, so I went to Sunnmøre to visit her instead. It was clear that something was wrong. She felt terrible that, as her guest, I had to serve her. On Monday, she had a doctor’s appointment, and her blood tests revealed something seriously amiss. She was referred for an MRI.

I returned to Oslo on Thursday, but by Friday, she had received the diagnosis: cancer with metastases. The prognosis was grim.

My mother, whom we had believed would live well into her 90s. Just a year earlier, we daughters, her daughter-in-law, and her sister had celebrated her 80th birthday with a girls’ spa trip to Geiranger.

She had thoroughly enjoyed it—being with family meant everything to her.

Photo: A wonderful 80-year-old raising a toast with us in Geiranger in July ’23. We had such a great time!

The following week, her evaluation began. It took a toll on her, and after a liver biopsy, her condition worsened significantly. The doctors couldn’t determine the origin of the cancer and could only offer broad-spectrum chemotherapy. It might have made her even sicker, so she declined. She wanted to go home. By then, they told her she had only weeks to live. The cancer was exceptionally aggressive.

That evening, I returned to Sunnmøre. I was shocked when I saw her—within two weeks, her condition had drastically deteriorated. We feared she might pass away that night, and I called my children, worried they might not make it in time.

The next day, though, she rallied. She got up for breakfast and, surprisingly, had a good appetite. She had started a medication that could provide temporary improvement.

It was September, but summer warmth had returned. I hadn’t brought summer clothes, so I borrowed a dress from her.

“You can keep it,” she said with a smile and suggested other pieces that might suit me.

Soon, she was sorting through her wardrobe, finding dresses and outfits for all four of us daughters. We tried them on while she sat contentedly in her armchair.

“I feel so much better now,” she said.

She slipped out of her own dress and handed it to my sister to try.
It was a memorable moment.

I stayed in Sunnmøre and received support from NAV to care for her. One of my sisters was there always too, and we took turns so she was never without at least two of us. We wanted her to pass away at home, as she had wished.

She said goodbye to her grandchildren. After a few days, my son returned to Oslo and his studies. He had a heartfelt conversation with her and felt he had said his goodbyes.

My mother was not afraid to die. She accepted her fate and expressed gratitude that her five children were always by her side.

“I feel so lucky to be surrounded by love and safety,” she said.

She spoke of how she had never regretted having five children at a young age and how she came to “Berget” as early as 17.

Family and friends came to visit—her sister, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nephews, nieces. She thanked them for what they had meant to her.

We talked openly about her funeral and what mattered to her. Together, we chose poems and hymns, reading them aloud for her.

On the terrace, we listened to the song “Eg har høyrt om ein stad” together. It is a song about the beautiful place you reach after death. My daughter began to cry, my mother took her hand to comfort her. She was so calm and peaceful. It comforted us as well.

She also wanted to meet with the funeral director, a longtime neighbor. My mother specified the flowers—beautiful, warm autumn colors to reflect the season. The only uncertainty was the date of the funeral.

“Well, it’s not every day she visits and finds the corpse sitting in the armchair,”

my mother joked after the meeting. Her humor stayed with her to the end.

We had a truly special time together. The closeness and open conversations prepared us for what was to come. Her peace helped us find ours.

“Even though you five are so different, I love you all equally,” she often reminded us.

The priest visited after my sister reached out to him. Three of us were present for the conversation, while my daughter stayed upstairs. My mother began by praising his sermons for their hopeful tone.

“I’ve always had my childlike faith,” she said. “I believe God is something bright and beautiful. I’ve never believed in a punitive God.”

The priest seemed impressed by this woman, facing death yet so calm and steadfast in her belief.
He ended the visit with a prayer and a blessing. It was a magical moment that moved us all to tears. As he left, my daughter came downstairs, saying she, too, had felt something profound.

Towards the end, she grew weaker by the day. But a joyous moment came when she met her 10th great-grandchild and learned that the 11th was on the way.

“She is on the ferry now,” I told her as she lay frail in bed.

Her face lit up, and energy returned for that moment. The meeting was touching and unforgettable.

Photo: 4 generations. One week before she passed.

The following week, she could only manage visits from us children. The night before my eldest sister’s birthday, September 25, she said:

“If I go tonight, you must celebrate her tomorrow.”

Even at the end, she thought more about us than herself.

September 27 became her final day, exactly five weeks after her diagnosis.

She could no longer speak. My sister noticed her breathing change, and we gathered around her. I called my brother and other sister, urging them to come quickly.

We sang “Den fyrste song” and “Nå lukker seg mitt øye“, the evening prayer she had always prayed for us. Now it was our turn to pray it for her.

My mother lay there peacefully, tears streaming down her face. She could hear us.

My brother arrived just as she drew her last breath. Later, he told us he felt her presence as a gust of wind as she left. Another sister, who was still on the road, said she felt she had said goodbye as well.

As she took her final breath, her eyes opened, and she gazed intently at a point beyond us. It was as if she saw something we couldn’t.

The funeral became just as she had wished.

Photo: Funeral in beautiful autumn colors.

The priest gave a hopeful, uplifting speech and shared his visit with her.

“When I left, I wasn’t sure who comforted whom,” he said.

He mentioned her final gaze, saying he believed she saw Jesus.

But instinctively, I thought, No, she saw Dad.

She believed so strongly that she would be reunited with those who had gone before her—Dad, her beloved parents, and her younger brother who had died in a car accident at age 16.

Now Im sure they are all together.

Mom, thank you for the safe and loving childhood you gave us.

We’ll meet again.