Diary of an End of Life Journey October 6, 2026

We all process our grief differently.  We know this, of course.  We have all heard it, there are lots of cliches about it, and you see little poems and memes about it all the time.  But when you are in the grieving season, you experience that reality differently, as you realize that you are not actually sharing the same grief that each of your family members are experiencing.  Grief is a very individual thing, and it is relationally based.  And since every relationship is distinct, every grief will feel different.

This came home to me last night in a hard new way as I was talking with my brother, who is grieving the loss of the very same mother I am.  He loved her just as much, without question.  But his relationship with her was different than mine, thus his grief is different than mine.  This is normal and expected, but reminds me that while universal, grief is also individual and lonely.  And everyone's way of processing is also going to be different, so you are alone in that, too.  This journal is not about his feelings, and his story is his own, so I won't say anything more about him.  But it brought home to me how isolating grief can be, even when you share a loss for someone you both so dearly loved.

Every loss is unique, because the relationship itself is unique.  People are irreplaceable.  The things you miss will be different and distinct.  The things that are special to you, that you particularly miss, are probably individual, rather than collective.  I look at something, a knick knack or a book, and it means nothing to me, while my brother will grab it and say, oh, I have to keep that.  Meanwhile, he is tossing something that is meaningless to him into the donate pile while I'm crying wait, that's important to me, and he can't imagine why!

Our spouses can support us, but they weren't there for the entirety of our lives with our mom, so they can't know the depths of our relationship or fully understand what we have lost.  Our children have their own grief, based on their own relationships with their grandmother, each separate and unique and individual and complex.  How do I best support my children while navigating this whole new painful emotion in my own head?  And how do I give them the space to support me back when I am used to being the strong one?  Perhaps this is where the tide starts turning and the children start taking a stronger role in the relationship?  Grief is a complex landscape, for sure.

I lost my dad as a child, and that grief was and is entirely different than this.  Nothing could compare to the sudden loss of a beloved parent early in life.  And I have lost other much loved people in my life before now, of course, but never my own mother, the foundational person of my life.  There is only one person who has underpinned my life for my entire life, been there for everything, the good, the bad, the happy times, the sad times, the highs, the lows - and that is my mom.  My life has unalterably changed.

The grieving began awhile ago.  This journey began awhile ago.  But this portion?  When they say your heart physically breaks?  They are not wrong.  My heart is hurting today.

I am reminded again today of the importance of allowing people space to grieve, and to sit beside them in their grief.  One of the things I will miss the most about my mother was her ability to sit with me in whatever space I was in, without having to fix it.  She allowed me to feel whatever I felt without needing to solve anything or work it out for me.  She just listened, or often, just sat in silence with me, and she was comfortable with that.  It is a rare skill, and so valuable to me.

My mom would expect me to eventually pick myself up and move forward, though, so I suppose I shall.  I will carry her inside my head and follow her guidance, because after all these years, I pretty well know that would be what she would want me to do.  But for today, I am going to have to let myself mourn, because my broken heart is fragile, and tears on earth are where I am at.  I will pretend she is sitting with me, though, quietly listening to my heart, and holding my love as she always did.  Even death can't steal that away, because she left a piece of her heart with me when she took a piece of mine with her.

Diary of an End of Life Journey October 3, 2026

The loss of one's mother, at any age, is immense.  The last couple of days have been busy as we worked through arrangements for her funeral, talked to the florist, the funeral director, started going through belongings and discussing other details, and trying to get her affairs in order, some of which have gotten in disarray in the past month as we just got through the days caring for her.  There are so many details to deal with - it is overwhelming, especially when you are still exhausted emotionally from the past month's roller coaster ride.  But it also allows you to put aside some of the heavier emotions while you deal with it all, which is probably good, at least temporarily.

However, this morning I have been thinking about my mother's hands, and how many times I have held her hand in my life.  As a child, she would hold my hand tightly so I couldn't dart into the street or run in front of someone and get in their way.  On walks, she would lightly hold my hand to steady me so I wouldn't fall if I tripped over a tree root or uneven ground.  (I've always been a klutz.)  She was quick to grab my hand over the years, and I am used to the touch of mom's hand on mine.

Over the past few years, she grew more concerned about falling as we walked places outside, especially after a bad fall she took because of an uneven sidewalk.  Each time we went somewhere, I carried her purse and held her hand, and we went there together, the two of us.  I thought about how years ago, she didn't need a cane, just my arm to walk to the car.  Then she decided she better have the cane, too.  Eventually, I took her arm, because we thought it would be safer, in case she stumbled.  And in the end, I would take her arm and we would hold hands as we walked, because it helped her steady herself, and I think she just liked the silent reassurance that I was there.

She remarked a few weeks ago that I was now caring for her just like she cared for me when I was little, and it was true, even to tucking her in at night.  I knew just how she wanted her pillow tucked around her neck, and her shoulders covered.  There is comfort in having been able to do that for her, in having been able to provide the care for her that she needed in her final days, just like she cared for me when I needed it as a child.  I think that is something my brother and I can take forward with us - we each gave back to her what she gave to us, and the circle of love was, in some ways, unbroken.

Death may end a life, but the journey is not over, certainly not for awhile, and I have a feeling this one never will be.  My mother lives on inside my head and my heart, and I still feel my mother's hand in mine.  I hope I never forget it.  It is the feeling of love, the pure, unadulterated, unearned, unconditional love you can only get from your mother.

Diary of an End of Life Journey. October 1, 2026

 Life moves too quickly, even when it lasts for almost 100 years.  And my mom's life moved too quickly, especially at the end.  One minute she was fine, living her life as always, and the next, she was not.  And suddenly, she is gone, and I am just supposed to go on without her, like an earthquake didn't just tear my entire life apart.

I am not sure how I move forward from this point, honestly.  I have already thought a dozen times, I need to call mom... I need to text mom... and then had to realize I no longer have that option.  My heart is shattered.  There is no other word.

But every other person who has lost a mother has managed to pick themselves up and move on, including my own mother, whose example I have followed my entire life.  So I guess I will have to do the same.

She lived her life with joy and optimism, fully sure of her faith and her salvation, which gave her freedom to live her life well and fully.  She loved with fierce devotion, espcially her children.  She served with strong dedication, wherever she was serving.  She worked hard at whatever she was doing.  She carried her life long friendships with her.  She was a role model for everyone of courage and strength and honor and the power of love.  And above all, she showed the power of faith as she surmounted every obstacle life threw in her path with dignity and grace.  She didn't talk about her faith, she lived it, each and every day.

I am a fortunate woman to have such a mother, who prayed over me for all of my days until now.  Rest in peace, sweet mama.  Until we meet again.

Diary of an End of Life Journey September 28, 2026

I have said all along we are on a crazy circus ride, and the ride continues.  We will take the good days and enjoy this little rally that Mom is experiencing for as long as we can, admiring her, as usual, for the trooper that she is.  The Energizer Bunny has nothing on her, that's for sure.  Never has.  Never will.  And her attitude remains optimistic, as always, which is interesting, given that she recently said to me, "I'm in a mess, aren't I?"  There wasn't a lot I could say to that beyond, "Ya, Mom, I'm afraid you are."  Then we both laughed, because what else are you gonna do?  I can't think of anyone else in the same situation who would call it a mess, though.  What an interesting take on the situation.

I have read that the one regret most people have regarding hospice is that they didn't enter it sooner, and I understand that completely, because it changes the end of life game entirely.  When you make the difficult pivot from extending life and preventing death to extending comfort and preventing pain, somehow it seems to also extend life in ways you don't expect.  I think extending comfort makes life more worth living again, so people have more energy to fight for their life or something.

Hospice care has changed the game for us, without question.  So if anyone is on the fence about whether it is time for hospice care, I would say, with unqualified fervor, yes.  Try.  I had no idea what a difference it would make.  In retrospect, my mother probably would have qualified several months earlier, if only I had realized it, and it would have added to the quality of her days so much.  So I totally understand that sentiment.

In my opinion, the number one game changer for her has been the hospital bed.  She resisted the idea for a long time, even though I gently suggested it,  because she thought she didn't need it.  But keeping her head elevated and being able to raise her knees and feet in the way only a hospital bed can do has totally revolutionized her sleep, allowing her to breathe comfortably at night while still fully relaxed and resting her body in a way you just can't achieve, even in your favorite chair.  And sleep is magic medicine.  I have seen with my own eyes just what a good night's sleep can do for a person, and its genuine sorcery.  I wish I could sleep like that myself.  Maybe someday.

Nurses visiting twice a week, monitoring her health, assisting with questions large and small, have taken a burden off of us as caregivers, trying to understand the finer points of her condition and figure out how to manage the harder aspects of CHF.  With their help, we suddenly have knowledgable and experienced people on hand to explain and prescribe drugs to assist with breathing and other difficulties that come with the body slowly coming to its natural conclusion, and it has made a world of difference.  No longer in the dark, but able to handle middle of the night problems and reassure someone who is slightly panicked at breathing difficulties is everything.  Hospice has provided that.

Aides who come in and provide help in showering and personal care weekly take the burden off family in a weekly fight that many would rather not battle.  It is so nice to be able to hand off a difficult task Mom hates to someone else, who is professional and caring, but then leaves.  Showering is exhausting for a person who is already tired, and it is easy to put off.  But it is good for the skin and good for the mind, so having someone else to do the dirty work is good for everyone involved!

Chaplains, music therapists, massage therapists, social workers - all play a role in hospice care, and all are so appreciated and valued by both patients and their families.  They assist in so many ways, and I think it is truly a calling, not just a profession, to be a hospice carer.  I have benefited from their care as they have cared for my mom, and also for us, taking time to explain, listen, reiterate, evaluate, and work with us to keep mom as comfortable and happy as possible in this closing chapter of her life.

Together with the care my brother and I are giving her (being waited on hand and foot by her two favorite people left on earth is definitely giving her some incentive to stay here!) hospice has changed the way my mom's final chapter looks.  Instead of the chaos we were looking at a few weeks ago, we have a calm, organized routine, with managed care and steady guidance.

If I could give one piece of advice to someone considering whether it is time to call hospice, my advice is to do it sooner rather than later, if you think your loved one is at the point that healing is no longer in the picture.  They will give you peace of mind, and some very valuable tools you need to help your loved one (and yourself) get through a challenging time that will come to all of us eventually.

Diary of an End of Life Journey. September 24, 2026

I grew up on a family farm that has housed several generations of family.  My mother, just shy of 100 years old, was born in this house, and has always been determined she will die here, and as usual, she is quietly but determinedly getting her way on this, as most things.  So as my brother and I care for her, we find ourselves looking around at everything in this house, and realizing just how much of our own stuff remains, the detritus of childhood that never had to be dealt with, because, well, why?  Mom is always there, she didn't care if our rooms remained the same, and while we cleaned out the bulk of it, a few things hanging on the wall, or laying in a drawer or on a closet shelf didn't seem to be that big of a deal.

A few nights ago I started looking at those "few things" and realized just how many things a few things added up to, and just how much work was going to be involved in just getting rid of my own belongings in this house, sentimental items I don't really want in my house, but didn't really want to part with, either.  So Mom's house was a good parking place for them.  Oh dear.

I have stacks of little tiny photos from grade school of my friends that we exchanged with each other.  We were so young and innocent then.  The world was full of possibilities back then, and we had no idea how hard adulting would be.  Sometimes I would like to go back to that time.  I slept a lot better at night back then.  My biggest fear was the dark.  And that wasn't even real.

I have the doll my aunt and uncle brought back from their trip to Japan for me.  She is a pretty little doll, and sat on my dresser for many years, a reminder that they loved me and thought of me, even when they were on the other side of the world.  They are gone now, but this visible reminder of them is hard for me to part with, even though I rarely look at it.  But I know its there, and somehow, that knowledge brings me comfort.

I have a little Shriner's cap that I got at the circus when I was a kid.  I have no idea why they were giving out these caps, but I have had it for years, and every time I see it high on my shelf, I smile, because it reminds me of fun times and childhood pleasures.  Do I need a Shriner's cap?  No.  But its been nice to have it there and get a glimpse of it every now and then all these years.

I have a little set of figurines that a friend made for me when we were teens.  She is an artist, and they are really special because they are genuinely beautiful, not the little craft that you say is pretty because your friend made them.  They have sat on a corner shelf in my bedroom for 50 years, a reminder of our enduring friendship through thick and thin.  How do I simply discard something so meaningful?  But how much can I keep from a whole lifetime of sentimental keepsakes?

Everywhere I look in this house I see things that have to be gone through, decided on, that will require emotions to be put aside and hard decisions made.  I have heard friends talk about how difficult it is, how frustrating it is, how overwhelming it is, and how they wish their parents had done things differently.  But as I look around, I suddenly understand why my mom hasn't done that.  She loves her comfortable familiar home, with everything in its spot, and the sentimental spaces all filled with things that have always been there, reminding her of the happy, busy life she has led.  She takes a sentimental journey whenever she looks at her things, and it brings her joy and peace and comfort.

A lot of things are changing really fast, but this house remains lost in time for now.  There is some comfort in that for me.  It will change soon enough, but for today, I will continue to enjoy the sentimental journey.