You know, you can prepare for it as much as you like, but somehow, you're never quite ready for the death of a close relative. Especially a child or parent.

I worked in EMS for 20 years and have seen more death than most people can imagine. I've seen people who stuck guns in their mouths and blew their brains out the backs of their heads, I've seen countless broken and destroyed bodies in car wrecks, smelled the unforgettable smell of someone burned up in a house fire, and the unbelievable stench of bodies that have been decomposing for days or weeks, I've seen dogs who were feeding on their dead, decaying owners and even seen a rat come running out of a cavity it ate into the guts of a dead guy.

I've watched people die. More often than most of you could imagine.

Nothing adequately prepares you for watching your mom die. Mine died Wednesday morning, March 2, 2011. I had been bedside with her Monday night in her intensive care bed.

The folks at the hospital had assured me that she was in no pain and really wasn't aware of what was happening. She was on a ventilator as well. When I walked in, her eyes locked on me. I sat there, kissed her, held her hand, and told her, everything was okay now.

The doctor was examining her at the time and when he pressed on her abdomen near her surgical site, she squinted and started to cry. I almost came unglued right there and then.

She was suffering, obviously. With a tube down her throat, about a dozen IV meds running into her and in pain I don't want to imagine.

Mercifully, at the request of my brother, they gave her some Versed and morphine and allowed her last hours on Earth to be painless.

There's no moral to this story, no message to make sure you tell your mom or dad or brother or sister or wife or kid how much you love them before it's too late, no advice to resolve issues unresolved, or anything else. It's just an insight into what eventually happens to all of us.

Sleep soft, mom. I love you.