About two weeks ago my mom, who was 91 and was suffering from late stage dementia, started refusing food. She asked for things to drink (I mostly gave her water and Ensure), but she would not eat. A little after that she refused to drink. Then she stopped talking, closed her eyes and went into something like a deep sleep and became unresponsive. I knew her time was coming to an end. It was hard to deal with emotionally, of course, but part of me was actually glad it was happening. Her quality of life was poor, she mostly slept during the day, stopped reading (which she used to love to do), and was completely bed-ridden. Furthermore she often was unaware of where she was, who she was, and what was happening around her. This got gradually worse during 2015. Often I found myself asking God to just take her. I just wanted it to be over so I could go through the grieving process instead of grieving every day for the loss of someone who was still physically here. Also, she needed me by her constantly, would call my name every few minutes, asked the same questions over and over; There were lots of beautiful moments, too: she often told me how much she loved me, what a wonderful person she thought I was and how much she wanted me to have a happy life. So, when she actually started to go there were mixed feelings of fear, anguish, but much relief. I wanted to be with her during the dying process. I wanted to go through it with her. Even though she was non respondent, I talked to her constantly, telling her how much I loved her and what a wonderful mother I thought she was (all of which came from the heart). But I still prayed to God to take her quickly, for both our sake. However, when she passed last Friday it hit me like a ton of bricks. The world seems so surreal right now. But I was comforted and cheered by friends. Anyway, last night I started thinking about the mixed feelings I had when she started to go. This feeling that "at last it's going to be over. She'll be in a better place and I can have a little more freedom." I recoiled at these thoughts last night; did I really WANT my mother to die? What an awful person I am! And then I thought about all our friends who tried to cheer me by remembering what a good son I was, how much I loved her, and how much she loved me. But now I thought, "If they only knew...I feel like a fraud, I was relieved when my mother started to die! Did I actually will her death? Was there more I could have done that I didn't do, just because I wanted the dying process to continue? Should I have force fed her? Am I somehow responsible for her death?" I know a lot of caregivers feel like this.And the real paradox is that now that she's gone I'd give anything to have her back. Deep down, I know these doubts aren't true, but these thoughts started to hound me last night. Has anyone else here ever experienced these ambivalent thoughts about a parent's death, especially one who had needed intensive care during the last year of his or her life?