My mother, Lysa Hall, was my world — and even now, after her death, she still feels present.
At 59, she was admitted to the hospital with a bad infection. She’d already endured countless surgeries throughout her life, but she remained the strongest person I knew.
This time, something small became life-altering. She quickly declined, becoming bedridden, and couldn’t fend for herself.
That’s when I stepped in as her primary caregiver — even though I was living in Los Angeles and she was in New York.
When extra hands weren’t available, I became the hands. It was an eight-month journey that taught me to grow up.
Managing her medical needs, emotions, and dignity became my daily responsibility
I was frequently traveling back to New York to check my mother’s mail and pay her bills. Months before any of this happened, she made me a secondary holder on her accounts. That access became essential, allowing me to pay what was due, keep receipts, and send her photos so she knew what was happening. It was her money, and I wanted her to be informed and respected.
The hardest part in the journey was discovering bills I didn’t know existed, like some overdue hospital bills. Between calls, paperwork, and asking for extensions and grace, I was stretched thin while still working full-time within the entertainment industry.
Through it all, I watched my mother, who is my hero, fade right in front of me. But losing control was harder for her, so I focused on preserving her dignity and reminding her that needing help didn’t erase who she was.
When she died last May, it broke me. But I had promised her I would never leave her, and it still warms me to know I did everything I could to keep her safe and ease her stress. After everything she poured into me, I’m grateful I could pour back into her.
My caregiving role didn’t end after her death, but I had extra support
Suddenly, there were no more calls to the nurse, no more reminders, and no more check-ins. My emotions were all over the place, but my faith anchored me.
My brother and I sat in our living room in shock. Her death didn’t feel real. It felt like I was watching my life from the outside.
However, there was still a lot to do. My job as a caregiver wasn’t over. Thankfully, my brother swooped in and took the baton. He handled her affairs while I managed what I could. Telling our family and planning the funeral with my brother was intense, but our dad helped us through.
Sharing the load felt strange because every task we completed made her absence more permanent.
Grief became my new form of caregiving
After the funeral and remembering her with everyone else, I realized my role in her life hadn’t ended; it just changed form.
Now, I find myself protecting how people remember her and honoring her in many ways.
If something feels incomplete, I fill in the gaps so her legacy stays true. Keeping her traditions alive has become another way I care for her. Every Christmas, my mother and I went to Bergdorf Goodman, and then ended the day with dinner upstairs. This year, we did exactly that, and I cooked her famous lasagna with my sister-in-law, adding my own spin — keeping one ingredient exactly the same: love.
While our chapter in the physical world has closed, a new one has opened. I don’t just miss her; I feel guided by her.
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