It was in 2004, one of those warm, sunny mid-March days that suggests an early spring when mama fell.

By then, mama and dad had been living in a pleasant assisted-living center not too far from their home. Mama, strong and vigorous as ever, had been in the steady clutches of dementia for a couple of years. Dad, by contrast, was still alert and inquisitive, but his body had started to betray him. The move from their much-loved little home was not an easy choice for them.

Mama’s resistance to the move was far more intense than dad’s, who seemed to understand the necessity of it. Looking back, I think mama compensated by descending deeper into the dementia that allowed her to escape the constraints of time and travel back those long years to when she was a share-cropper’s daughter, skipping down the cotton rows in bare feet and a print dress made from a flour sack.

So, on that March day when the nurses noted the warm, pleasant weather and asked “would anyone like to go for a walk?” mama, being a scruffy little country girl of 6 or so at that precise moment, was the first one out the door, the first to cup in her hands the azalea and dogwood petals that had bloomed early in response to the call of an early spring.

On the way back from their short walk, she missed a step up to the porch, fell and hit her head.

She never really regained consciousness.

By quirk, good fortune or divine arrangement, I was “home” at the time, having taken two weeks of vacation from my job in Arizona to spend some real time with my parents.

I met mama’s ambulance at the emergency room and stayed the over-night shift by her hospital bed for the remaining week of vacation. Each day, the hospital staff ran EKGs on her, checking for brain activity. Each day, the tests showed no function. Along with the various tubes and monitors, she was fitted with a feeding tube, which we soon realized that was the only thing that would keep her alive now.

Finally, a few days before I was to leave, several of my siblings and my dad met quietly to discuss what should be done. The doctors had recommended the feeding tube be removed. There was no chance of recovery, they said.

As you might imagine, it was a difficult decision, but it could have been a far more difficult one.

Mama and Dad had prepared a “living will,” which stated that it was their desire not to be kept alive by artificial means, should that circumstance arise.

After talking with Dad to make sure that removing the feeding tube was really what mama would have wanted and being assured, yes, that was her wish, we gave the doctors our consent to remove the feeding tube.

I left for Arizona the next day.

On April 21, six days short of her 67th wedding anniversary, Mama passed away at age 84.

In 18 months’ time, Dad would pass, too, at age 86.

Today is National Healthcare Decision Day, designed to encourage people to make their “end of life” decisions now, which can spare family members much anguish when the decision such as the one we faced with Mama come.

What I can say from experience is that the time for these decisions will come too soon and making them without knowing the wishes of that family member can be as heart-wrenching as it is avoidable.

Experts say only 20-to-30 percent of people have made those arrangements, sadly.

Health officials throughout the country hope that by designating today as National Healthcare Decisions Day, more people will consider the wisdom of making those plans.

Taking the time to put down, in writing, your wishes and designating a family member with power of attorney are two things health officials strongly recommend. You can find a form by going the National Healthcare Decisions Day website at www.nhdd.org or by calling Steve Brown, director of spiritual care at Baptist Golden Triangle at 244-1398. At Oktibbeha County Hospital, Special Services Director Amie Gary 615-3130 can assist. At NMMC West Point, contact Michele Rowe at 495-2337.

There are few things that take so little time and energy that can mean so much at a time when some of life’s most difficult decisions must be made.

You will be glad you took the time to do this now. And, when that day comes, your loved ones will be comforted in knowing that their decisions in those last hours have your blessing.

Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].