Safta Lorraine

Just three months before she passed away, Mom was living independently at Treeo Senior Living in Utah. At 88 years old, she walked about a mile each day, sang karaoke, gathered friends around her dinner table, and continued doing what she had done throughout her life: building community wherever she went.

In April 2026, she entered the hospital with pain and unusual sensitivity along the right side of her body. Within days, she had lost the ability to walk and was diagnosed with autoimmune encephalitis, a rare condition in which the immune system attacks the brain and nervous system.

For several months, we believed she would recover. But during rehabilitation, she began experiencing painful neurological spasms that gradually became relentless. Every ten minutes, day and night, another wave of pain would come.

Despite everything she endured, something remarkable never changed. The moment each spasm ended, Mom rarely talked about herself. She asked about her children, grandchildren, friends, and everyone else around her.

She didn’t pretend the pain wasn’t real. She simply refused to let it become the whole story.

During her final hospitalization, after nearly every other option had failed, doctors attempted an epidural. The procedure was difficult, and it appeared they might have to stop. One of Mom’s nurses, Kylie, remembered how much our family loved music and quietly turned on some songs.

After the procedure, I heard what I thought was groaning.

Then, as I listened more closely, I realized Mom was singing.

She was singing “I Hope You Dance,” her favorite song.

When the epidural took effect, the pain and spasms finally stopped.

Mom was back.

By an extraordinary coincidence, nearly our entire family had already planned to gather in Utah that week for her belated birthday celebration. For three beautiful days, every generation of the family she had created, along with their spouses, partners, and loved ones, filled her hospital room with music, laughter, stories, and love.

When the epidural was tapered, the pain returned, and we transitioned to hospice. Less than forty-eight hours later, Mom passed peacefully, surrounded by the family she had created.

In what still feels like a miracle, she passed within the brief 48-hour window when every single one of us was together in Utah. We found a beautiful small temple in Ogden and held an amazing memorial service for her on Monday, July 20, 2026.

I know she loved it.

We did not receive the miracle we had spent months working for.

Instead, we received the many miracles of five unforgettable days.