The Reality of the Room in the Corner

August 5, 2019

It wasn’t the hospital. It was a room in my sister’s house. A room where you would spend your final days. It was a small room in the corner of the house. A place that would eventually hold your last breath and the shattered pieces of our hearts. 

The room in the corner, the last place I would hold your hand, cuddle with you, and feel the warmth of your touch. It was the place that would hold our last moments, our last minutes, and our last goodbyes. It was a place that smelled like medicine and emptiness. It was the place you died.

The room in the corner, a place with shower curtain drapes to shield the pain and harsh reality of death from your grandchildren. It was a room filled with a hospital bed and endless amounts of tears. It was the place that we would say goodbye. The last place and room you’d ever see.

The room in the corner, the place we would hold your hand, administer medication, and ultimately, watch you leave on a stretcher, lifeless. It was the place people would enter to tell you how much you were loved and how deeply you’d be missed. It was the room that held our biggest heartbreak, our bottomless emptiness, and also the person that meant the most to us in this world, you.

The room in the corner, a room that before held dinner tables and chairs for entertaining, which now held your final days and the typical possessions of a hospital room. It was a room that would be forever changed, forever different, and forever filled with memories that are painfully ingrained in our hearts and minds. 

The room in the corner, the place that would end your journey of dying. The place that held death. It’s a place that you would leave in two drastic ways: one headed to your body’s final resting place, and the other where you would soar beautifully to embark on your soul’s new and final adventure. 

For two years I pictured that room as the place where you died, the place where a piece of all of us died. A place that was dark and morbid and earth shattering. Today, I woke up with a new vision in my heart.

You see, that room in the corner is the place you left to enter heaven. A place you left free of pain and disease with a soul more beautiful than the life and love you blessed all of us with. 

Realizing the miracle that occurred that day, in that room, changes the way I see the “Room in the Corner”. You didn’t leave us that day, in that room. You simply took a different seat at the table, one from above. 

A new place, a new perspective, a new you. That room took your last breath, but it formed the perfect and beautiful soul that would grace heaven.

You left that room and entered eternity, and I had the blessing and heartbreak of watching it all. 

xox, Chels

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Chelsea Ohlemiller

Chelsea Ohlemiller

A thirty-something wife, mother and educator who has Indiana roots and a passionate spirit. Chelsea is a sappy romantic, coffee junkie, book collector, and person who wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s sarcastic, full of jokes, full of tears, and enjoys writing most when life gets messy or complicated. In 2017, Chelsea's mother passed away. Through her grief journey, she decided to take her mother’s advice and share her writing with the world. One day she gained the courage to honor her mother's wishes and write. It turned out to be one of the best decisions she's ever made.

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