Two years ago, on March 24, we lost my father-in-law, Ed. I wrote a blog post then—part tribute, part processing. At the time, I remember saying, “This is a marathon, not a sprint.” I didn’t realize just how long the road would stretch.
On March 24 of this year—exactly two years to the day—we lost my mother-in-law, Lucy.
I had the honor of writing her obituary, just as I did for Ed. But words felt heavier this time. Maybe because it’s the end of a chapter, or perhaps because watching my husband walk through the last two years has been one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever witnessed.
Three Moves, Countless Falls, and the Cost of Deterioration
After Ed’s passing, Nathan and his brother wanted to give their mom a fresh start. They moved her from the home she shared with their dad to a senior living community in Hershey—one with all the bells and whistles. But it never really felt like home to her. She didn’t engage with the programs, didn’t love the environment, and when her health began to decline, the facility pushed her toward personal care. She resisted. And less than a year in, they essentially gave her an ultimatum—and then let her go.
That led to move number two: a retirement community in Harrisburg, this time with outside help brought in to support her throughout the day. And then, finally, came move number three—to assisted living, when she needed even more support.
Through it all, there were falls. So many falls. Late-night calls about head injuries. Hospital stays. Rehab stints. Each setback chipped away at Nathan, slowly but visibly.
A Life Left in Boxes
In between the caretaking came the reality of settling a lifespan’s worth of possessions. The family home—the one Nathan and his brother grew up in—had to be sold and cleaned out. After trying to tackle one bedroom and barely making a dent, they hired a professional downsizing company. It was just too emotional.
Every move came with decisions: What stays? What goes? What gets put in storage?
By the end, the sum of Lucy’s earthly belongings had been whittled down to a few boxes—now in our basement. Cards, letters, photos, keepsakes, diaries, important documents. We still haven’t gone through the final few. There’s something sacred about those boxes. They hold a lifetime. And the act of opening them feels both necessary and impossibly heavy.
The Final Goodbye
On the day of Lucy’s funeral service, her ashes we placed beside Ed’s, both in beautiful, personal urns. They now rest next to their twin daughters, who passed away at just a few days old years ago, before Nathan was born. Watching my husband and his brother walk their parents to their final resting place was heart-wrenching. The weight of what’s now gone...it hit in waves.
And the work wasn’t over.
The death certificate took ten days to arrive. The financials? A maze. Banks want accounts closed, but life doesn’t pause just because someone has passed. There are still taxes to file (yes, even after death), a property to settle, and bills that continue to arrive.
It blows my mind how some people have an obituary, funeral, and arrangements sorted the very next day. Unless it was all pre-planned, I can’t fathom it.
What I've Learned
Grief is not linear. And neither is the process of settling affairs after someone’s departure from this world. I still believe what I wrote two years ago—that the endless logistical gymnastics might be a cruel distraction from grieving. But now? Now I wonder if it’s something else entirely. A sick joke, maybe. A system that demands your time, attention, and resources when all you want is to sit in stillness and feel.
In the midst of all the chaos, I’ve learned a few things:
- You can’t go through this alone. We leaned hard on the people around us. When someone asked, “How can I help?”—we told them. Doordash gift card? Yes, please. A case of beer? Absolutely. Whether it was helping move furniture or just listening on the other end of the phone, every gesture mattered.
- Life is short—and we carry too much. Physical stuff. Emotional baggage. Most of it, we don’t need. At the end, our lives come down to a few boxes and the love we shared.
- Compassion is everything. I have a new level of empathy now—for caregivers, for families, for anyone walking through loss. Be kind. People are carrying more than you can see.
Beyond the Obituary
This post isn’t meant to be a complaint. It’s just a glimpse into the reality many of us will face—or are already facing—with aging parents and end-of-life logistics. It’s not clean. It’s not easy. And it’s rarely talked about.
So if you’re in the middle of it: I see you.
And if you’re not there yet: hold your people close. Hug them often. Say what you need to say.
Because in the end, what we leave behind isn’t what’s packed away in boxes—it’s the love we gave, the memories we made, and the people who carry them forward.
