Actually – 2 weeks…
It started a bit on Friday, November 14, 2025 – not quite Friday the 13th this year.
This weekend, I had been planning to attend a local handbell festival
On the morning of Friday 14th, my 102-year-old mom announced that she wanted to go to the hospital. We’d been thinking about taking her on Monday the 16th since she was having a few issues. I knew we’d need to get medical transport and they required a 48 hour lead time.
So, I called 911. The fire truck arrived first (in our county, fire and ambulance travel together) and did a quick assessment. The ambulance arrived and took mom to the ER.
We drove over to the ER and somehow arrived first.
We were met by someone we knew from church. Cue: It’s a Small World After All…
When we were in the ER room, I let my pastor know what was going on and he came and prayed with the 3 of us. Talked about what she believed and what might happen here.
There are moments in life when everything shifts quickly—when one decision leads to another, and suddenly you find yourself navigating a world you weren’t prepared for.
My mom ended up diagnosed in the ER with an upper GI bleed. From there, she was transferred to the hospital, and the whirlwind began.
Questions came quickly, often before we had time to process the last answer.
Would a blood transfusion be enough?
What if it didn’t work?
What would the next step be?
A CT scan revealed more complications—a significant impaction—adding another layer to an already complex situation. Eventually, she was moved to a room in the hospital, but clarity still felt just out of reach.
In the middle of medical decisions, there are also family decisions.
Our son asked if he should come right away. At that point, the answer was, not yet. It’s strange how you find yourself trying to measure urgency when everything already feels urgent.
Later, he and his wife decided they would bring the kids the following weekend. Even in the uncertainty, we were trying to hold onto normal rhythms, to give everyone time and space while still staying connected.
As things unfolded, we began talking with hospice.
That word carries weight. It shifts the conversation. It invites questions you may not feel ready to answer:
- What are our options?
- What does care look like now?
- What does my mom need most?
We kept talking—with doctors, with hospice providers, with one another—trying to understand what each path might mean.
On November 14, I stepped away briefly to attend the final program of that bell festival I mentioned at the beginning of this post. It was a moment of beauty and normalcy in the middle of everything. And then, just as quickly, it was back to the hospital.
We were told she wasn’t sick enough for inpatient hospice.
So then what? Send her home… and then what happens next?
The in-between space is one of the hardest places to be—when someone isn’t well, but doesn’t fit neatly into the categories the system provides.
The conversation began to shift toward in-home hospice—what it would look like, how it would work, and how we could support her in a place that feels familiar.
We talked to more people. Asked more questions. Tried to piece together a plan that honored her dignity and comfort.
This journey has reminded me that:
- There are rarely clear, easy answers.
- Decisions often come before you feel ready.
- And sometimes, the most important thing you can do is simply keep asking questions.
Above all, I’m learning how important it is to walk with one another through uncertainty—to listen, to support, and to take the next step, even when the full path isn’t clear.
Tuesday, November 18, things began moving quickly again—this time in a different direction.
At 8:30 AM, representatives from a “senior living” community came to the hospital to evaluate my mom. Another conversation, another set of decisions. Everything felt both urgent and strangely routine at the same time.
I went to work that morning and sat through our staff meeting, trying to focus, trying to stay present. Life doesn’t pause, even when your heart is somewhere else.
At noon, I left to sign the papers.
My mom would be moving into a small apartment—her own space, with a living room and kitchen. It sounded comforting in theory, like a step toward stability. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t fully aware of what was happening. That realization sat heavy with me.
By mid-afternoon, the practical details took over.
At 3:00 PM, I brought clothes to the hospital so she would have what she needed for the move. The plan was for her to be transported by nurse and ambulance to the senior living facility.
The irony wasn’t lost on me—the facility was right there on the hospital grounds. Close enough that she could have been wheeled over. But this is how systems work sometimes: not always efficiently, not always logically, but steadily moving forward.
And so, she was transferred.
She arrived, got settled in, and just like that, another transition was complete.
That evening, at 7:00 PM, I went to handbell practice.
It might seem like a small or even insignificant detail, but it wasn’t. It was a moment of normalcy in a day filled with decisions, paperwork, and emotional weight.
There’s something grounding about showing up for something familiar—ringing bells, following music, being part of a group that doesn’t require explanations.
And so, we keep going. One step, one decision, one day at a time.
Wednesday, November 19, we met with the hospice supervisor. Another step, another layer of care, another attempt to understand what this new chapter would look like.
And yet, alongside those serious conversations, something surprising was happening.
My mom had gone down for breakfast. She was attending activities. She had lunch.
There was a sense of routine beginning to form—small pieces of normal life reappearing in the middle of everything that had felt so uncertain just days before.
That day, I returned to some of my own routines as well. I taught piano lessons, then went to church for piano and organ practice with my duet partner. Music, once again, became a place to breathe—something steady when everything else felt unpredictable.
Thursday, November 20, brought another meeting—this time with the hospice nurse who would be visiting weekly.
When the nurse arrived, my mom wasn’t in her room.
She was getting her hair and nails done—something she had never done in her life.
In the midst of diagnoses, transitions, and difficult decisions, here she was experiencing something new, something simple, something joyful. It felt like a small gift—unexpected and beautiful.
Eventually, she came back to her room to meet the nurse. Then it was back to the salon, and then on to lunch. Life, in its own way, was continuing.
I arrived at work late that day, again trying to balance responsibility and presence—two things that don’t always fit neatly together.
Later that afternoon, a friend offered to help find furniture for my mom’s new living space. We went over to see mom, hoping to get a sense of what she might need.
But when we arrived, she was asleep.
So we quietly stepped away and returned to our day.
Back to work.
Back to responsibilities.
Back to trying to make sense of how to live in two worlds at once.
I stayed late at work to make up the hours I had missed. And then, as if to close the day in a familiar way, I went to choir rehearsal.
There is a strange tension in this season:
- Deep, weighty decisions… alongside ordinary daily routines
- Conversations about hospice… alongside hair appointments and lunch plans
- Grief and uncertainty… alongside moments of unexpected grace
Life doesn’t stop. It layers.
And sometimes, in the most unexpected places—like a first-ever manicure—you catch a glimpse of something tender and good.
We are still walking this path. Still learning. Still adjusting.
One day at a time.
Friday, November 21, life felt like it was moving in multiple directions at once.
Our son and his family had started their trip to come see us. At the same time, my phone filled with texts and pictures from the friend who was helping find furniture for my mom’s new place.
“Just pick something,” I said.
At that point, decisions didn’t need to be perfect—they just needed to be made.
I picked up the rental van, another practical step in a day full of them, and headed over to see my mom, bringing more clothes and personal items.
She was sleeping again.
There’s something disorienting about walking into a room prepared to do something—to help, to organize, to connect—and finding stillness instead.
So much was happening around her. And yet, in those moments, everything felt very quiet.
I went home, but the day didn’t slow down.
A good friend had the furniture ready and wanted to bring it over. So we went back again. It took two trips to move everything in.
She slept through all of it.
The room was slowly becoming a living space—furniture in place, things beginning to look like home—and she wasn’t aware of any of it happening.
Meanwhile, another thread of the day was unfolding.
We took our son and his family to their AirBnB—only to discover the code didn’t work. Plans shifted quickly. Suddenly, they were back at our house with all their bags, and everything felt a little chaotic.
Our son started calling around, trying to find another place to stay.
In the middle of it all, we did what you do when things don’t go as planned:
We went to IHOP. Just us, two little kids, and their mom—sitting down for a meal in the middle of the uncertainty. It was simple, a little messy, and somehow exactly what we needed.
While we were there, a text came through: son had found a place. He went back to our house, gathered their things, and met us at the restaurant.
We dropped them off at their hotel, finally settled for the night.
And then we came home.
After a day of moving furniture, making decisions, shifting plans, and holding space for everything in between, I sat down on the sofa—and fell asleep.
Saturday, November 22, we gathered at the senior living community for what was meant to be a lovely Thanksgiving brunch. It was one of those moments where you hope things are turning a corner—where maybe, just for a little while, things might feel normal again.
But in the middle of it, my mom collapsed in the bathroom.
Just like that, everything shifted again.
And yet, somehow, the day continued. The rest of us went to Applebee’s for dinner. It felt strange—how life keeps moving, even when something inside you has paused.
Sunday November 23 brought church.
I played handbells. The kids were on the playground. Their mom packed up. We went to IHOP—again. And then they headed back home to a more normal life.
There was something grounding in those familiar rhythms, even as everything else felt uncertain.
That evening, at a community Thanksgiving service with other area churches, I found myself moving handbell boxes to make space for a larger choir. In the process, I broke my toe.
Despite the pain, I sat down and played the organ for the postlude in a piano-organ duet. Sometimes you just keep going because that’s what the moment asks of you.
Monday, November 24, we went back to see my mom. I canceled my piano students. It felt like the only thing I could do.
She spent the entire visit screaming.
There are moments in this journey that are deeply peaceful—and others that are incredibly hard. This was one of the hard ones.
Later, I went to the emergency room. Yes, my toe was broken.
It felt almost surreal—trying to care for my mom while also needing care myself.
Tuesday, November 25 brought a different kind of moment.
There was a cut on my mom’s leg – where did that come from?, a visit from the hospice nurse, and a chaplain who came and sang hymns with her.
In the middle of everything, there was music again.
Wednesday, November 26 I went to work, canceled piano students again, and another visit to mom. Life kept layering—responsibility on top of responsibility.
On Thanksgiving Day November 27, we held onto tradition where we could. We had lunch at Cracker Barrel.
It was a day of contrasts—gratitude and heaviness sitting side by side.
On Friday, November 28, the call came.
My mom had a fever of 102. The hospice nurse said she likely had three to four days left. They were doing everything they could to keep her comfortable.
Even when you know it’s coming, hearing those words changes something inside you. My mom must have known somehow what was coming – before we left her she said “thank you” and “I love you”. Words we’d rarely heard from her before.
That evening, we went to a Mannheim Steamroller Concert – we’d had the tickets for a long time. It should have been enjoyable, but it wasn’t. Nothing quite felt right. We went out to dinner afterward, trying to go through the motions, but everything felt muted.
At 5:25 AM on Saturday, November 29, the phone rang.
“Your mother has stopped breathing…”
We went right away. Hospice hadn’t arrived yet, so we waited. There’s a stillness in those moments that’s hard to describe—quiet, heavy, suspended.
When the hospice nurse arrived, he made the official announcement.
And just like that, it was real.
Afterward, life didn’t stop.
We went to BJ’s to buy shoes for my husband. Then back to Sunrise. Another hospice worker came. The funeral home arrived and gently took her away.
And then we went home.
There is no clean ending to a week like this.
Only moments:
- A brunch that didn’t go as planned
- Children playing on a playground
- Music played through pain
- A chaplain singing hymns
- A Thanksgiving meal held together by love
- A quiet room at sunrise
And a final goodbye.
In the end, what remains is not just the loss—but the love that carried us through every moment, even when we didn’t realize it at the time.
Sunday, November 30, we went to church, I sang in the choir. During the prayer time, the pastor mentioned my mom.
There is something deeply comforting about hearing your loved one named out loud in a place of faith. It makes the loss feel seen. Held. Shared.
Monday came with no students.
Just… moments of weirdness. That’s the only word that fits. Not quite sadness all the time. Not quite normal. Just an unfamiliar quiet where something—and someone—is missing.
On Tuesday, there was no staff meeting, but I went to work anyway. I didn’t do much. I didn’t need to. It was enough just to be around other people.
That evening, I went to bell rehearsal.
Music, once again, offering something steady.
Wednesday, I didn’t teach. DH went to PT and AA. I had planned to go to balalaika rehearsal, but changed my mind.
That night, he got lost on the way home after dropping someone off in Manassas. I found myself guiding him back using my phone—directions, “Find My,” trying to piece together his route.
Even in grief, life keeps presenting small, ordinary challenges.
Thursday brought work and choir rehearsal.
Friday brought snow—and the thought that maybe we should start removing things from my mom’s room. But not yet. Some things take time.
On Saturday, December 6, we began cleaning out mom’s room at the senior living place..
Then Sunday came with another moment of… weirdness.
I met a friend at the senior living place to remove her furniture.
It was gone.
We asked at the front desk. They gave us a key to check another room—full of furniture, but none of it hers.
Another loose end. Another unanswered question.
A few days later, on Wednesday, December 10, we finally found out what happened.
The friend who had originally brought the furniture… had taken it back.
Just like that, one more piece of the puzzle resolved.
We dropped off her urn at the funeral home.
And somewhere in the middle of that moment—a moment you never quite imagine—you realize something unexpected:
Amazon has beautiful urns.
Even in grief, there are these small, almost surreal realizations. Things you never thought you would know. Details you never expected to matter.
On Saturday, December 13, we finally cleared everything out of her room.
Every item gone.
Every drawer emptied.
We handed back the key.
There is something final about that moment—not just symbolic, but physical. A space that once held a life is no longer yours to enter.
A few days later, on Monday, December 15, I wasn’t myself.
I was short. I was angry. I yelled at DH. Words came out that I didn’t mean and couldn’t take back.
Grief doesn’t always look like sadness.
Sometimes it looks like frustration.
Sometimes it looks like exhaustion spilling over.
And yet, even that day, I went to practice piano-organ stuff with duet partner.
Because somehow, music keeps showing up.
On Wednesday, December 17, I picked up my mom’s urn from the funeral home.
Another moment you can’t quite prepare for.
It’s small. It’s quiet. And it carries the weight of everything.
On December 18, something shifted.
We realized—we could travel again.
For weeks, everything had been about staying close, being available, responding to whatever came next. And suddenly, that constant vigilance was no longer required.
So we made plans.
We would go see our son, his wife, and the grandchildren for Christmas—for three days. And, I broke my thumb…
And just like that, something new entered the story:
Not just grief.
But movement.
Not just loss.
But the possibility of joy.
What This Season Has Taught Me
This journey has not been linear.
It has been:
- chaotic and quiet
- sacred and frustrating
- full of music and silence
- marked by both breaking and healing
And somewhere along the way, I’ve learned this:
Grief and life don’t take turns.
They walk together.
Stay tuned for posts about trying to plan a service, trying to get her death date on a headstone with my dad, trying to get her to Maine for burial… Today is April 13 and only the obituary is complete. But I’m working on the other stuff!
Miscellaneous Comments
December 30 – Wow! Who knew? A relative I never heard of.
From drsrheritage on 30 Dec 2025
Mary Alice Tibbetts Kelly
Please accept our condolences in the passing of Mary. She would have been my Dad, Art Shaw’s, first cousin.
My love and prayers,
Darlene
~~~
Thinking of you and your family during these difficult times. Your mom is in great hands….God’s hands. God will take really good care of her. I know you will miss her greatly and will treasure all of the memories.
Hi everyone,
I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving.
I’m sorry to send a message to everyone at once, but I’m not sure yet what this coming week will look like for lessons.
My mom passed away this morning, and there will be a lot for me to take care of in the days ahead.
The only thing I know for certain right now is that her burial will be in Maine next to my dad, so I’ll need to travel soon to make arrangements.
Thank you all for your kindness and patience during these last few whirlwind weeks with the ER, Fair Oaks Hospital, Sunrise, and hospice.
Your support has meant a great deal.
I’m hoping things will be more settled by next weekend, and I’ll keep you updated as I know more.
With gratitude,
Mary
~~~
