A daughter’s story of how hospice became a place of joy and connection

My mother, Sandra Angelini, grew up poor, so she learned to be happy with whatever she had and tended not to speak up when she needed anything. Still, she created the life she wanted, getting her Master’s degree, becoming an English teacher, marrying, and raising a family. Friends, family, work, and travel filled her life with joy.

She lived independently after my father passed away, but at 82, she suddenly became too weak to walk, and she finally had to ask for help. Realizing that I couldn’t give her the care she needed, I convinced her to go to the hospital. There, she was told that she had cancer and would have three months to live. After some discussion, we decided hospice was the best choice. My mother was at peace with the fact that she was near the end of her life, and she wanted to be in a calm, comfortable environment.

For me, the day she moved in was daunting: it felt like the final step toward the end. It was also a relief: she would be someplace safe and supportive. The hospice staff immediately surpassed our expectations; after my mother’s first night in the hospice, she told me she was being treated “like a queen.”

On her second day, the staff wheeled her bed into the courtyard so we could have lunch in the sun. The courtyard soon became her favourite part of the hospice, and I was able to take her, in her wheelchair, into the courtyard every day. She loved sitting beside the waterfalls while she had her coffee and was always happiest when she was out in the fresh air.

The staff and volunteers always took care of her physical and emotional comfort. They treated her like a person, not a patient, and always knew what would brighten her day. They would cut the crusts off her sandwiches, make her milkshakes in the evening, and compare Wordle scores with her every morning. No one rushed in and out when they were caring for her—they always stayed to chat and joke with her.

This warmth was the most important part of the hospice for me. My siblings live far away, so they weren’t able to be with my mother during this time. Knowing that she always had friendly, familiar faces around her was reassuring to all of us.

One day, the residential social worker told us about Lasting Memories, a program in which hospice residents go on a day trip with their family, escorted by local paramedics. We went to a conservation area—since mobility had become an issue for my mom, she’d missed spending time in nature. On the day of the outing, the nurses helped my mom get ready and took photos of her, and the hospice provided a scooter so she could keep up with her grandkids.

In the pictures from that day, she is glowing, obviously excited. We had a picnic, explored, and spotted wildlife. The trip, coming at a time when my mom thought she would never be leaving the walls of this final home of hers, was a meaningful reminder that she was still alive.

My mom always had special moments to look forward to while in hospice, like flowerpot painting on Mother’s Day with other residents and their families, barbeques throughout the summer, and a weekly family movie night in her room. My mother passed away after nearly five months in hospice. Her time there was peaceful and comforting and meaningful.

My mom and I had both viewed hospice as the place she would go to die. It was not. Hospice was where she would regain a sense of normalcy after a stressful period of time in the hospital. It was where she would enjoy the sunshine while she ate her lunch outdoors. It was where she would laugh and play games with her grandchildren up until her final days. It was where she would be brought to tears when a volunteer played her a particularly meaningful song on the piano. Most importantly, it was where she would spend her final months living rather than dying.

Shared by Cindy in loving memory of her mother, Sandra.