My mum Helen died a few months ago. She died surrounded by caregivers and children who genuinely loved her. Her spirit and the quality of care she received made her death easier to accept.

My mum lived her life with energy, passion and flair. She was a lover of jazz, author of a biography about a blues musician, and a good friend to popular artists. She married a kindred spirit, Stanley, equally enthralled with jazz, and helped him write books, articles and album liner notes. She adored dogs and roses. She raised four children with great love. She was an interracial justice champion in the U.S. during the 60s and 70s. She was a lay Carmelite, drawn to the mystical side of Catholicism. “The only thing I’ve got is a soft heart,” she wrote in her journal.

As she grew older, mum began to lose her short-term memory due to a series of small strokes. She also began to decline after my dad died. His death was brutal. Health professionals ignored his deadly condition and he was shunted from facility to facility. There was no continuity of care and no gentleness. No one told us about hospice. Dad died alone.

Because mum was terrified of leaving home, we hired a live-in caregiver. However, a major stroke forced us to find a facility. In the mountains of Escondido, California, we discovered Silverado, a facility that prides itself on being a home for residents. There was also a full-time hospice nurse available. Hospice was an indispensable service in this environment. Within a few months, we noticed a positive difference in mum. Her memory was deteriorating, but her peace of mind was striking. “I’ve no grumbles, dear,” she assured me. “This is a nice place. People are good to me. The view is beautiful. And I have my doggie.”

Mum used to be a worrier and not shy about complaining if warranted. We marveled at the change and, at the same time, mourned the loss of the mother we remembered. I’d call her the day after a visit and she’d have no memory of it. But her spirit was intact as she always asked, “Are you happy dear, with your life?”

During one visit, a lead caregiver saw me outside on a bench in tears and came over to hug me. She gave me a poem, “When I Must Leave You,” and told me it comforted her when she lost her mother.

Mary, however, stood out by far as the most caring of the hospice staff. She could not repress her faith in God - and thank God she didn’t. After we left one night, mum opened up to her. “I think I’m going, don’t you?” she asked Mary. “Yes you are,” Mary replied. “You’re going to see the Lord and your husband once again.” Mum smiled back at her in peace.

The next day, with all four children by her side, we witnessed mum struggle for every breath. As my brother began telling her a story, she was able to let go, her last act. She had always feared dying alone. Unlike Dad, she died surrounded by love.