between worlds
Life went on while death reigned in Olivia’s body. By early August, our world had narrowed so completely, it felt like it belonged only to us.
Most days, I fought back waves of fear and exhaustion. It was clear we were keeping a failing body alive against impossible odds. Months earlier, I had prayed for peace and a clear conscience—but by summer’s end, I had neither. I was afraid. Terribly afraid.
We were suspended in limbo. We had lived before we knew Olivia was dying, and we expected to live after—but while we waited for her to die, we weren’t really living at all. We were only waiting.
On August first, Olivia took a turn for the worse. She became lethargic and often unresponsive, trailing off mid-sentence, unable to make eye contact. That day, I sat at her bedside, tense and helpless, counting her shallow breaths, measuring her urine output—believing, somehow, that documenting the details might protect us from what was coming.
visitors
Olivia asked to see people, so we made a list. I began making telephone calls, explaining—again and again—that she was in renal failure and not expected to live much longer. With each call, I absorbed another wave of shock and grief from the person on the other end of the line.
I called her birth mother. Her many relatives. Neighbors, teachers, aides. Parents of her friends. School administrators, the secretary, the nurse, the bus driver—everyone.
Olivia knew and loved them all. And everyone loved her.
On August third and fourth, they came. One by one, they came to say goodbye. Olivia’s best friend, Elizabeth, came with a necklace and a card—one I’ve kept to this day. It says:
Dear Olivia, I’m so so sad. I hope you stop feeling bad.
I wanted to tell you that theres a lot of peaple that I know that are up there, like Papa and Ant Temple. I hop you meet them.
I love you. I love you!
Your friend!
Elizabeth
I felt a boundless flow of love and energy as people came and went, despite the circumstances. All of Olivia’s teachers—from school and church over the past decade—came to see her. An ocean of love and mercy buoyed us during those days. I had never felt such peace, such depth of being. People we hadn’t seen in years arrived at the house, bringing food, flowers, books, music—or simply their presence. They held our daughter and told her they loved her.
I hadn’t seen her so happy, or so at peace, in a long time.
birthday
Our twins turned three on August sixth. The next day, we had immediate family over for birthday cake, carrying Olivia to the sofa so she could be part of the gathering. She loved any kind of party, and it was only because of her persistent, pointed questions about what kind of cake Sage and Rosemary would have that we even agreed to celebrate. Marking two children’s birthdays in the midst of another’s dying felt almost unbearable—but there was Olivia, who had barely eaten in two days, eagerly asking for cake.
The cake was decorated with pink and blue flowers and edible glitter and six candles–three pink ones for Sage, and three blue for Rosemary. We sang “Happy Birthday,” the flickering candles reflected in eyes bright with the light and love among us.
Though Olivia wanted cake, she had no appetite for it and pushed a lone pink flower around her plate with her fork. It was clear that she was dying.
“two more days“
Later that evening, as I tucked her into bed, I asked Olivia how she was doing. “Not too good, mom,” she replied, “I hope this doesn’t go on too long.”
I hesitated, but asked, “How long do you think it will be?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You don’t know?” I asked.
“I do know,” she replied, watching my face.
Her beautiful brown eyes gazed into mine steadily, waiting for me to react.
“Tomorrow?” I asked, keeping my face calm with benign curiosity.
She shook her head no.
“The next day?”
Olivia nodded. “Two days,” she said. “Two more days.”
I lay down on the bed with her. My heart was lead. Two days.
How could she know? This was a child who still struggled with measuring time. How could she suddenly tell me “two days”?
I was unnerved.
the first day
But Olivia spent the next day dying. When she woke up, she could no longer swallow, yet suffered relentless thirst. Her “I’m thirsty” sounded like the cry of Christ from the cross.
We used sponges to dribble water into her mouth and moisten her lips. She struggled to breathe, and complained of sharp pain in her chest. We had promised her there would be no pain—because that’s what her doctors had told us—but there was pain. Watching her suffer was unbearable. No one had expected Olivia to be so aware as she died, much less to speak about it with such clarity.
Her suffering that day was intense. The hospice nurse arrived and offered morphine—medicine that would ease her pain, but likely bring on sleep, and perhaps even hasten death. We explained this again, gently. But Olivia shook her head. She didn’t want to sleep—not yet. She didn’t want that kind of medicine at all. She said she wanted to stay awake, even if it hurt. She did accept something milder, just enough to help her relax without putting her under completely.
She continued to suffer.
As the afternoon sun cast bands of western light against the walls, Olivia fell silent. She watched me beside the bed, or sometimes on it, doing counted cross-stitch and listening to music. There was nothing left to say as we simply looked at one another. She was fading fast.
My friend Linda came to sit with us—an unforgettable act of kindness during that terrible time. We didn’t speak. We just sat with Olivia, as family members came and went.
At one point during that long day and evening of suffering, I thought I could no longer bear to watch Olivia endure so much pain. I feared I might lose my mind witnessing the agony that came from her choice to remain conscious. I wanted to force morphine on her—she was only a child! I was the adult; what if I knew better? Yet her father and I had promised to give her the freedom to die on her own terms, just as she had lived her own way, within limits. As a parent, could I really decide when her suffering had gone too far when she was still so clearly herself? Or did I only want to medicate her to ease my own suffering?
In the end, I chose to keep the promise I’d made—to walk with her as far as I could, as companion and servant—not as judge or dictator of what ought to be. Her dying time was hers and God’s alone. Mine was to do a mother’s labor, no more and no less.
the second day
By the next day, Olivia could no longer speak. Though still alert and recognizing everyone, her jaw seemed clamped shut—something the hospice nurse explained can happen during the dying process. She drifted in and out of consciousness. When she looked at me every now and then, she offered a sweet, fleeting smile. She could no longer hold hands or squeeze, so I held her gently and gazed into her eyes whenever she was awake.
All day, Olivia’s breathing was rapid—40 respirations per minute, while normal is 12 to 20. Her little body was working so hard, still so strong.
I had stayed by her side every moment that week, leaving only to use the bathroom just steps away. In the early hours of August ninth, lying beside her in bed, I thought she might die. I turned on the light and watched her, holding her hand. As her organs shut down and toxins built up, her breath—and the whole room—smelled of death. With every breath, the smell of death grew stronger.
She looked for all the world like a breathing body. I felt terrified, for she no longer seemed fully human. Her body was there, working, but her spirit was elsewhere, and I couldn’t go to where she was.
I had spent most of the night awake beside her, watching over her. Around 6:30 a.m., I called my husband and asked him to pray for me—I was barely holding on and feared I might collapse, unable to keep my promise to Olivia.
My husband prayed that we would all be able to remain where we ought to be, whether in this world or the next, echoing Philippians 3: “Our citizenship is in heaven, and we eagerly await a Savior from there, who […] will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.”
I called Olivia’s birth mother and told her our daughter was dying. We wept together, but I was sustained by the strength of two mothers—and the shared will to go on.
I called Olivia’s birth mother and told her our daughter was dying. We wept together, but I was sustained by the strength of two mothers—and the shared will to go on.
the third eve
the third day
Every day—sometimes every hour—brought uncertainty and doubt about how Olivia’s Daddy should spend his time. I had committed to staying with her every moment; he carried everything else.
That morning, he had gone to work for a few hours, but by 10:15 a.m., it was clear Olivia was struggling to breathe. I called and asked him to come home. Just a few days before, I had made the same call, only for it to be a false alarm. Hospice had said it could still be a week or more. We had no idea when—or how—she would go.
He answered right away and told me he had already cried at work. He didn’t want to be away from home, but he also had a business to run. I urged him to listen to his heart. He was home within the hour. About fifteen minutes before he arrived, I thought Olivia might stop breathing—but she didn’t. It seemed she was waiting for her Daddy, too.
We settled in with her, and around noon, Olivia had a monstrous seizure—her entire body shaking with every fiber. Her respirations doubled, and her heart rate turned faint and erratic. Her hospice nurse arrived for a routine visit, but couldn’t get a blood pressure reading. She quietly said she believed Olivia would pass within 24 to 48 hours.
Olivia then had three more seizures, spaced five to ten minutes apart. Each one seemed to discharge a great deal of energy, as if her body was working to release something deep and final. Afterward, her breathing pattern changed—each seizure marking a shift, as though her body was transitioning between worlds. My husband and I held her close. After the second seizure, she opened her eyes and directly into mine. I saw fear there—raw and unmistakable—so I climbed behind her in the bed, cradling her small body against mine. I held her through the next seizure, murmuring comfort.
By the fourth seizure, she seemed distant—present, but no longer fully there.
Peace began to settle over her.
Afterward, her breath changed to soft little “huhs,” almost like a whispered mantra: that … that … that… Her teeth clicked gently with each breath.
Eventually, it became: hut (click) … hut (click) … hut (click)…
And then—her last breath.
Everything stopped.
Silence. Sacred.
Her spirit was no longer tethered to a body that had given all it could.
Then we cried—and cried.
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