The Last Two Days with Ammachi: The Storm, Her Final Wish, and Our Last Goodbye
In memory of Mrs. Thankachi George (1934–2026), my beloved Ammachi
Roshan Yacob George
10/11/202620 min read
The Last Two Days with Ammachi: The Storm, Her Final Wish, and Our Last Goodbye
In memory of Mrs. Thankachi George (1934–2026), my beloved Ammachi
Some memories remain ordinary until life gives them a meaning we could never have anticipated.
A visit that seemed like any other becomes the last time we see someone recognise us. A kiss that we give out of affection becomes the final kiss before a loved one slips beyond our reach. A journey home through terrible weather becomes something we revisit in our minds, searching for meaning in the thunder, the lightning, and the darkness.
And words that we hear without fully understanding their significance become the words we remember for the rest of our lives.
For me, the last two days of Ammachi's life were filled with such moments.
On 9 October 2026, I visited my beloved Ammachi in the afternoon. She was 92 years old, and her health had deteriorated significantly. By then, she was receiving palliative care, and we knew that she was very ill.
Yet when I went to see her that afternoon, she recognised me.
She was happy to see me.
I showered her with kisses.
I did not know that this would be our last meaningful interaction. I did not know that, within a few hours, she would become unresponsive and that I would spend the following day kissing her forehead and cheeks, trying to hold on to the warmth of someone who had held me when I was a child.
I did not know that the following evening, while her grandchildren sang and prayed for her across continents, I would watch her take what appeared to be her final breath.
At the time, I was simply visiting my Ammachi.
Today, those moments have become part of the most painful and precious memories of my life.
This is my account of those final hours: what happened, what I saw, what I felt, and what I have come to wonder about since she left us.
9 October 2026: The afternoon she recognised me
I visited Ammachi on the afternoon of Friday, 9 October.
Despite her weakness, she recognised me and was happy to see me. That recognition meant so much to me. Even as her body was becoming frail, she knew who I was.
I showered her with kisses.
There was no grand farewell. I did not prepare myself for a final meeting or consciously try to memorise every detail. I was with someone I loved, and I expressed that love in the most natural way I knew.
Looking back, I wish I could have known how significant that afternoon would become. I might have stayed longer. I might have watched her face more carefully, held her hand for a little longer, or found some way to preserve the moment.
But life does not tell us which moments are going to become our last.
We live in the present, assuming there will be another opportunity. We leave to attend to work, return home, make plans, and carry on with the ordinary responsibilities that fill our days.
That afternoon, after visiting Ammachi, I went to the EY office at Infopark Kochi.
I had intended to leave early, at 5 PM.
I had work, as we all do, and I expected to return home after completing the day. Nothing about that plan suggested that I was moving towards the final hours of my time with Ammachi.
I had kissed her. She had recognised me. She had been happy to see me.
I carried on with my day.
I did not know that those kisses would soon become memories I would wish I could experience one more time.
The storm over Infopark
I wanted to leave the office at 5 PM.
But when I came out, the weather was extraordinary.
It was raining profusely. A massive thunderstorm had settled over the area, and the clouds were among the darkest I had ever seen.
The rain had continued from approximately 3 PM until 5:30 PM.
Beside the office was a canal. As the rain intensified, the canal overflowed, and the water roared. I could hear the force of the water moving beside the building.
It was not merely the sound of rain falling on the ground. It was the sound of water surging through a canal that could no longer contain it.
There was also lightning.
A nearby lightning conductor was being struck repeatedly, and I could see the reflections of the lightning as it continued to flash.
The darkness, the thunderstorm, the overflowing canal, the roaring water, and the repeated lightning created an atmosphere that remains vivid in my mind.
I was there, watching and listening, waiting for the weather to ease enough for me to leave.
At the time, I could not have known what the next few hours would bring.
I was simply trying to get home.
But after Ammachi's death, I began to revisit that storm in my mind.
The intensity of the weather, the darkness of the clouds, the roaring canal, and the repeated flashes of lightning all seemed to acquire a different significance. I found myself wondering whether those extraordinary events had been signs of something I did not yet understand.
Was it simply a terrible storm on an October evening?
Or was there something about that moment that I would always associate with the loss that was approaching?
I cannot claim to know.
I cannot say that the weather was a supernatural message or that it foretold Ammachi's death. Nature has its own forces, and storms occur without our being able to assign a personal meaning to them.
But grief changes the way we look back at events.
When someone we love dies, we return to the hours before their passing. We remember the light, the weather, the roads we travelled, the people we met, and the things we heard. We examine these details because we are trying to understand an experience that has changed our lives.
For me, that storm has become inseparable from the memory of 9 October.
It was as if the world outside was expressing an intensity that I could not yet comprehend within myself.
I was watching the sky darken while, unbeknownst to me, I was approaching the final evening in which Ammachi would still open her eyes and respond to me.
I reached home at approximately 6 PM.
And there, another extraordinary moment awaited me.
“Ponam, ponam”: Ammachi wanted to go home
When I arrived home, the parish priest was there.
I went inside to see Ammachi.
She was weak, but she was still able to speak in her frail voice.
She kept saying, “Ponam, ponam.”
In Malayalam, ponam means “I want to go” or “I need to go,” depending on the context.
I heard her words as an expression of her desire to leave and go somewhere.
I responded to her: “Okay, let's go to Mavelikkara.”
Mavelikkara was her home.
As I think about that moment now, I wonder what was going through her mind. I cannot know for certain, and I do not want to put words into her thoughts. But I have a strong feeling that she wanted to return to the place she knew as home.
Perhaps, in her mind, going back to Mavelikkara meant being somewhere familiar, somewhere that belonged to her, somewhere she associated with life as she had known it.
I sensed a powerful desire to keep living.
I helped her sit up.
For a moment, she seemed to have some energy and determination. She was eager, almost as though she was ready to act on her wish.
Then, as soon as she sat up, she said that she needed to lie down again.
Her body was too weak.
That moment has stayed with me because it revealed the contrast between her will and her physical condition.
Her body could no longer do what she wanted it to do. She could express a desire, but she could not sustain the effort required to act on it.
Yet I sensed something strong within her.
I felt that she had a powerful heart and a strong will to live. I imagined that she believed that if she could return to her home in Mavelikkara, she might recover or survive.
I cannot know whether that was precisely what she believed, but it was how I experienced her determination.
I loved that passion in her.
She was a strong woman.
Even in her frailty, I could sense the determination that had not entirely left her. She was still expressing a wish, still trying to communicate what she wanted, still reaching towards something that mattered to her.
It is difficult to explain what it feels like to witness this in someone who is nearing the end of life.
You see the weakness of the body, but you also see the person who exists beyond that weakness. You remember that the frail figure before you is the same person who has lived through decades of experiences, developed relationships, formed preferences, and carried on with life through circumstances you may never fully understand.
You do not see only an elderly woman who is ill.
You see Ammachi.
You see the person whose wishes still matter to you. You see someone whose determination moves you precisely because her body is no longer able to follow where her mind and heart want to go.
I wanted to help her. I wanted her to be comfortable. I wanted to believe that she could still have more time.
When I told her that we would go to Mavelikkara, I was responding to her wish in the simplest way I could.
I was not making a medical promise. I was meeting her desire with affection.
I wish I could have taken her home if that was what she wanted.
I wish I could have given her the reassurance that she would be all right.
But some things are beyond our ability to promise.
That evening, I could see her weakness, yet I could also feel the strength of her desire to live.
I will remember both.
The parish priest's prayer
The parish priest came in and prayed over Ammachi.
She was weak, but she was happy to see him.
There is something deeply meaningful about prayer in moments when ordinary words begin to feel inadequate. We can talk about illness, discuss care, make arrangements, and try to understand what is happening. But when we stand beside someone we love who is gravely ill, we eventually encounter questions that practical explanations cannot settle.
We pray.
We ask God for mercy, comfort, strength, and peace.
We entrust the person we love to a care greater than our own.
As the priest prayed over Ammachi, I watched her.
She did not have the strength to move her hands as she ordinarily might have done. Yet, after the prayer, she managed to draw a cross on herself.
That small gesture has remained with me.
Her body was weak. She was struggling even to sit up. She could not sustain the effort of remaining upright, and she soon needed to lie down again.
Yet she managed to make the sign of the cross.
It was a small movement, but it felt significant to me.
I saw in it a response to prayer, an expression of faith, and a final act of participation in a familiar Christian gesture.
I cannot know everything that she was experiencing at that moment. I cannot claim to know precisely what she understood or felt. But I know what I witnessed: a woman who was extremely weak, who had been happy to see the priest, and who still managed to draw a cross on herself after he prayed.
Then she dozed off.
It was a quiet transition. There was no dramatic announcement that this would be the last time she responded to me.
She simply became sleepy.
And I continued watching her.
The last time I adjusted her eyebrows
While Ammachi slept, I noticed something about her face.
Her eyes were closed, and the skin around them was wrinkled in such a way that she appeared to be frowning. She looked almost angry.
I wondered what was troubling her.
Was she uncomfortable? Was something bothering her? Was it simply the way her face rested when she slept?
I did not know.
I only knew that I did not want her to look angry while she slept.
So I gently pulled her eyebrows back.
It was such a small thing to do.
I was not thinking about death. I was not consciously preparing for a final goodbye. I was looking at my Ammachi, noticing the expression on her face, and wanting to make it softer.
I wanted her to look peaceful.
I wanted her to be comfortable.
I wanted to do something, however small, that might make her appear less troubled.
I had no idea that this would be the last time she responded to me.
After that, she did not open her eyes again. She did not respond when we called her.
Her condition continued to deteriorate. I observed retractions as she breathed, with her chest drawing inward with each breath.
That little moment with her eyebrows has become one of the most intimate memories I have of our final interaction.
I have thought about it many times.
Of all the things that might have occupied my attention that evening, I was concerned about whether she looked angry while sleeping. I wanted her face to look relaxed.
I was still trying to care for her in the smallest way available to me.
I did not know that the familiar responses I had taken for granted were about to disappear.
I did not know that I would spend the next day kissing her face without receiving a response.
I did not know that I was witnessing the end of one kind of relationship and the beginning of another—a relationship that would now have to continue through memory, photographs, stories, and prayer.
When I think about that moment, I feel the pain of knowing what followed. But I also feel tenderness.
I was there.
I saw her. I touched her face. I tried to make her look peaceful.
And I loved her.
That was enough for that moment.
10 October: Kissing her while she slept
The following day, Saturday, 10 October, was different.
Ammachi had not opened her eyes or responded to calls since the previous evening. Her breathing was laboured, with visible retractions, and she had a slight fever.
I knew that she was extremely ill.
I continued to kiss her forehead and cheeks.
I did this through the day, holding on to the physical closeness that had been part of our relationship. She could no longer recognise me in the way she had the previous afternoon. She could no longer respond to my kisses or show that she knew I was there.
But I was there.
I kissed her because she was my Ammachi.
I kissed her because I loved her.
I kissed her because, even when words and responses had disappeared, I still had a way to express what I felt.
As I kissed her, I remembered something from my childhood.
I remembered the warmth of Ammachi holding me and sleeping beside me when I was little.
There is a special kind of security in the memory of being held by someone who loves you. As children, we do not analyse that feeling. We do not ask ourselves why the presence of a familiar person makes us feel safe. We simply experience it.
We feel the warmth of their body. We settle beside them. We fall asleep knowing that someone is there.
At the time, we cannot imagine that the day will come when we will be the ones watching over them.
We cannot imagine that the warmth we once received from them will become something we fear losing.
But as I kissed Ammachi on 10 October, I remembered that childhood warmth.
I remembered the experience of being held by her and sleeping beside her.
Now I was beside her, kissing her forehead and cheeks, and she was no longer able to respond.
I knew in my mind that soon I would not be able to feel her warmth any more.
That thought was devastating.
It was not simply the knowledge that she might die. It was the realisation that an ordinary physical experience—touching her, kissing her, feeling that she was warm and present—was about to become something I could no longer share with her.
There are things we only understand fully when we are about to lose them.
The warmth of a loved one's body is one of them.
We rarely think about it when we are young. We do not consider how precious it is to sit beside someone, kiss their forehead, or hold their hand. These things are simply part of loving another person.
But when death approaches, touch takes on a different meaning.
It becomes a way of remaining close when communication is no longer possible.
It becomes a way of expressing affection without expecting anything in return.
It becomes a way of saying, “I am here. I love you. You are not forgotten.”
I do not know how much Ammachi could hear or feel during those final hours. I cannot claim that she was aware of every kiss or that she understood everything happening around her.
But I knew why I was doing it.
I was trying to hold on to the person I loved, even as I recognised that I was losing her.
I wanted those final hours to be filled with affection.
I wanted my last memories of her to include the physical closeness that had connected us across generations.
And I wanted to give her, in whatever way remained possible, the same kind of tenderness that I remembered receiving from her as a child.
Once, she had held me while I slept.
Now, I kissed her while she lay unresponsive.
Time had turned our roles around.
The child who had once received comfort from her was now trying to offer comfort to her.
There is something profoundly human about that reversal. We grow up believing that the people who cared for us will always be part of our lives. Eventually, we may find ourselves caring for them, witnessing their frailty, and preparing to say goodbye.
We cannot prevent that cycle from unfolding.
But we can respond to it with love.
That is what I tried to do on 10 October.
The last gathering of her grandchildren
As the afternoon progressed, we remained beside Ammachi.
At approximately 5:45 PM, Minu and Gisha, her granddaughters who were in Michigan and Dubai, suggested that all the grandchildren gather over Google Meet to sing and pray for her.
It was a beautiful idea.
Ammachi's family was spread across different places. Some were physically present with her, while others were thousands of kilometres away.
Distance can make moments like this particularly painful. When someone is gravely ill, those who live far away may feel helpless. They cannot simply walk into the room, sit beside the person they love, or reach out and hold their hand.
Technology gave us a way to bring the family together.
The plan was simple: the grandchildren would meet online, sing, and pray for Ammachi.
At 5:53 PM, the Google Meet began.
I was beside her.
Her grandchildren were joining from different parts of the world, connected through their screens, united by their love for the same woman.
They began singing and praying.
There was something deeply moving about this gathering. Ammachi had lived for ninety-two years, and her life had become part of the lives of people across generations and geographical boundaries.
Now, as she lay in her final hours, those generations were coming together to pray for her.
We were trying to surround her with the voices of the family she had been part of for so long.
We wanted to be with her, even if we could not all be in the same room.
We wanted to offer her the comfort of prayer and song.
We wanted to say goodbye in the way we knew how.
I cannot describe what everyone was feeling at that precise moment. Each grandchild had their own relationship with Ammachi, their own memories, and their own experience of being separated from her by distance.
But I know that the intention was one of love.
They had come together because she mattered.
They had come together because they wanted to pray for her.
And I was there beside her, watching her as the songs began.
5:55 PM: The moment everything changed
The meeting had begun only two minutes earlier.
It was approximately 5:55 PM.
While the songs were being sung, I noticed something change in Ammachi's breathing.
She gave a large gasp.
Then the retractions stopped.
I immediately became alert.
Until that moment, I had been watching her breathe, noticing the effort involved in each breath. The retractions had been one of the visible signs of her struggle.
Now they had stopped.
My first thought was that she might no longer be breathing.
I became intensely aware of what was happening beside me. I watched her, trying to understand whether she had taken another breath.
A few minutes later, her body gave one last breath.
And that was it.
Ammachi had passed away.
It is difficult to put into words what it feels like to witness the death of someone you love.
There is the immediate awareness of what has happened. There is the shock of the moment. There is the knowledge that the person who was physically present only moments before is now gone.
And there is the strange contrast between the magnitude of what has happened and the quietness with which it can occur.
The Google Meet was underway. Her grandchildren were singing and praying. I was beside her.
Within that short interval, the gathering that had been organised to pray for her became part of our final goodbye.
I had spent the day kissing her forehead and cheeks. I had remembered the warmth of her holding me when I was a child. I had known that her death was approaching, yet knowing something is coming does not make the moment itself easy.
When it happened, it happened in front of me.
I had been watching her breathing. I noticed the gasp. I noticed that the retractions had stopped. I recognised that she was no longer breathing, and then I witnessed the last breath that followed a few minutes later.
At 5:55 PM on 10 October 2026, my beloved Ammachi's earthly journey came to an end.
She was ninety-two years old.
Her grandchildren had gathered in prayer.
I was beside her.
And I had to begin learning how to live with her absence.
The storm, the sign, and the meaning I seek
Since Ammachi died, I have returned in my mind to the events of the previous evening.
I think about the extraordinary storm at Infopark. I remember the darkest clouds, the relentless rain, the overflowing canal, the roaring water, and the lightning reflected from the nearby lightning conductor.
I think about how I reached home at 6 PM and found the parish priest there.
I think about Ammachi's weak voice repeating, “Ponam, ponam.”
I think about her desire to go to Mavelikkara, the way she tried to sit up, and how quickly she needed to lie down again.
I think about the prayer, the sign of the cross, and the moment when she dozed off.
And I think about the last time I adjusted her eyebrows because I did not want her to look angry while sleeping.
Looking back, the sequence of these events feels extraordinary.
The storm seems to belong to the same story as her final evening. The repeated lightning, the roaring canal, the darkness of the sky, and the knowledge of what followed have become connected in my mind.
I find myself wondering whether these were signs.
I cannot prove that they were. I cannot say with certainty that God was communicating something through the weather. I do not want to confuse what I felt with what I can know.
But I understand why these moments have taken on such significance for me.
When we lose someone, we search for meaning in the details surrounding the loss. We revisit moments that we did not fully understand at the time. We look for patterns, connections, and reminders that might help us make sense of what happened.
Sometimes an event becomes a symbol because of what follows it.
The storm itself was a physical event. Yet, in my memory, it has become a symbol of the evening before Ammachi's final hours. It reminds me of the darkness I was walking through without knowing exactly what lay ahead.
Her words, “Ponam, ponam,” have also acquired a deeper meaning in my mind.
She wanted to go. I wanted to help her. I told her that we would go to Mavelikkara.
I still wonder what she was thinking and feeling. I still wonder whether she imagined that returning home might allow her to recover.
I will never know the full contents of her thoughts that evening.
But I remember her desire to live, and I remember the strength I sensed in her.
I do not want her final hours to be remembered only as a story of weakness and dying. I want to remember the woman who still had wishes, who still tried to communicate, who still managed to make the sign of the cross after the priest prayed over her.
Her body was failing, but the person I loved was still there.
That is how I want to remember her.
What I wish I could tell her now
If I could return to that afternoon on 9 October, I would visit Ammachi again.
I would kiss her again.
I would sit beside her and take a little more time, knowing what I know now.
I would tell her how much she mattered to me. I would tell her that I remembered being held by her when I was a child. I would tell her that I loved the strength and determination I saw in her, even when she was too weak to sit up for more than a moment.
I would tell her that I heard her when she said, “Ponam, ponam.”
I would tell her that I wished I could have taken her to Mavelikkara if that was what she wanted.
I would tell her that when I adjusted her eyebrows, I simply wanted her to look peaceful.
And on 10 October, I would kiss her forehead and cheeks again.
I would tell her that I was there.
I would tell her that her grandchildren were gathering to sing and pray for her.
I would tell her that she was loved.
Of course, I cannot return to those moments.
The past is fixed, and grief cannot change it.
But perhaps writing allows me to say some of the things I wish I had said. It allows me to acknowledge the affection that was present even when I did not know I was saying goodbye.
I did not have a formal farewell prepared.
I did not know that my last meaningful interaction with her would involve something as simple as adjusting her eyebrows.
I did not know that the following day, the warmth of her body would become a memory I would hold on to.
I was simply being with my Ammachi.
And perhaps there is something comforting in that.
Our love for people is not made real only by the words we manage to say before they die. It is also present in the way we have treated them throughout our relationship, in the care we have shown, and in the affection we continue to feel after they are gone.
I wish I could have had more time with her.
But I am grateful that I had those final moments.
She recognised me on the afternoon of 9 October.
She was happy to see me.
I kissed her.
I was there when she expressed her desire to go home. I was there when the priest prayed over her. I was there when she made the sign of the cross.
I was there on 10 October, kissing her and remembering the warmth she had given me as a child.
And I was beside her when her breathing stopped.
Those are painful memories, but they are also part of the story of our relationship.
I will carry them with me.
A final prayer for Ammachi
Dear Ammachi,
On the afternoon of 9 October, you recognised me and were happy to see me. I showered you with kisses, not knowing that those moments would soon become the last time I would experience your response.
That evening, as I made my way home through a terrible storm, I had no idea how close we were to the end of your earthly journey.
When I reached home, you kept saying, “Ponam, ponam.”
I told you that we would go to Mavelikkara.
I wanted to believe that we could take you home, that you could return to familiar surroundings, and that there might still be more time for you.
I saw your determination. I saw your desire to live. I loved that strength in you.
Then the priest prayed over you, and you managed to draw the sign of the cross on yourself. You were weak, but you were still able to make that small gesture of faith.
I watched you sleep. I noticed that your eyebrows made you look angry, and I gently adjusted them because I wanted you to look peaceful.
I did not know that this would be the last time you responded to me.
The next day, I kept kissing your forehead and cheeks. I remembered how you used to hold me and sleep when I was a child. I knew that soon I would no longer be able to feel your warmth.
That thought hurt me deeply.
At 5:53 PM, your grandchildren gathered online to sing and pray for you.
Two minutes later, while the songs were being sung, I noticed your large gasp. Your retractions stopped, and I realised that you were no longer breathing. A few minutes later, your body gave one last breath.
At 5:55 PM, you left us.
I do not know why your final hours unfolded in precisely this way. I do not know whether the storm was simply a storm or whether there was a meaning in it that I cannot understand. I do not know everything you were thinking when you asked to go home.
But I know what I saw.
I know that you recognised me.
I know that you were happy to see me.
I know that you wanted to go to Mavelikkara.
I know that you responded to the priest's prayer by drawing the sign of the cross.
I know that I kissed you when you could no longer respond.
And I know that your grandchildren came together in prayer as your earthly journey ended.
These are the memories I will carry.
I pray that God, in His infinite mercy, will receive you into His eternal peace. I pray that He will comfort our family and help us bear the pain of your absence.
I entrust to Him the questions I cannot answer, the moments I cannot revisit, and the longing I feel for the person you were to me.
Thank you for being my Ammachi.
Thank you for the place you hold in my life and in our family.
I wish I could kiss your forehead and cheeks one more time.
I wish I could feel your warmth one more time.
But I will carry the memory of that warmth for as long as I live.
Rest in peace, my beloved Ammachi.
Until we meet again in the presence of the Lord, may you rest in His eternal peace.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.” — Revelation 14:13
In loving memory of Mrs. Thankachi George, aged 92, who passed away at 5:55 PM on 10 October 2026.