orphaned again

I just arrived home from the airport, after a 3.5 hour delay at JFK and Deniz crying and feverish with a cold he picked up while we were in NY, visiting my mom who was on hospice. After giving him a bath to wash away all the airplane germs, I massaged his chubby legs & arms & brushed his unruly baby hair that I have yet to trim, and then I checked my email & found one from my sister, and I knew before I even opened it what news she had.
My mom had passed away.
Ironically it was on Wed at 3:09pm, after my brother and I had left for the airport.
I truly believe she waited to see us one last time, summoning us with her sharp decline in health, so that we would fly in from our far corners of the globe, to see her one last time. My brother booked his flight from Taipei and I from Istanbul and we arrived half a day apart at my sister's house, where we would stay, 1/2 hr away from my mom's house in Westbury.
I'm really sad that I won't be there for the funeral - it seems amiss for my brother Adam & me not to be there. And I am being plagued by the 'if only's' as in, 'if I had only checked if my flight was on time before I left for the airport' or 'if I had only called sheila to kill time while I was waiting for my postponed flight' or 'if I had only called the house one more time to say goodbye to mom.'
I know I shouldn't feel bad, but I do. Because I really would have liked to have been at the funeral to see everyone & to talk about mom & hear all the stories & help to glorify her before we put her to rest. Mom's side of the family are a semi close-knit clan of Scottish descent & lots of fun to be around.
And I also feel guilty for spending more time trying to clean out the house of all our accumulated junk, rather than spend time at mom's bedside. But her state was not the way I want to remember her, with her one front tooth protruding out of her sunken face and her blank stare and swollen hands & feet, and the papery skin of her chest stretched over her collarbones. Even though she was not on life support, she had a catheter & was on an oxygen machine that made a creepy, mechanical breathing noise that scared Deniz when he was in the room with her. She seemed like she was in pain even though she wasn't, thanks to the liquid morphine they were giving her to slow her heart rate & her labored breathing was not quite a 'death rattle' but it made me feel that she would be better off at peace.
She was 89 and had lived a good long life, and she had not been well for many years. I had only felt good about moving from NY to Istanbul 2 yrs ago due to her advanced alzheimer's - if she had been herself, I wouldn't have wanted to move so far away, but since she no longer recognized me, I felt ok with the move.
So after contemplating all of this, I can't help feeling very alone, and thinking how this is the 2nd time I have lost my parents, now at age 43. I was adopted, and do not remember my birth parents, but have always had separating anxiety as a child. After initiating a search for them, I came up empty-handed; the orphanage had had a fire and the records had been burned. In 1980, I lost my adopted father to a stroke. and now, 30 years later, I have just lost my adopted mother.
But my son keeps me from dwelling too long on things that you cannot change. And as I mourn for my mother, and my other 3 parents, Deniz reminds me that life is for the living, with his boundless energy and new, intense interest in the world. I am reminded of the cycle of birth, life & death as he refocuses my mind & my energy slowly away from my mother to his needs, and I am at peace as well.