Five weeks ago, when I found out my mom was in the hospital, I was exactly 25 days into the hundred days straight of writing I had committed to. Obviously I, uh, did not keep up with it after that.

I do not feel particularly bad about taking a break while I was dealing with this. I did a lot of journaling during this time and while it was valuable for me I don't know how much good it would do for my broader writing goals to post the equivalent of a primal scream on my public blog every day.

My mom died on Thursday night. There was a blood moon. She would have loved it. Whole thing was pretty on brand for her all things considered.

When I was in middle school my mom found my Livejournal where I complained about her and my family and also wrote about various Star Wars and Lord of the Rings minutiae. Ever since then I've been reticent to talk about my family or personal life online. I guess the good news is she can't get mad at me for it anymore.

(Also I did ask her if she was comfortable with me

It's been 20 days since I found out (secondhand) that my mom was in the hospital. 18 days since she called and told me that she had decided to stop cancer treatment and enter hospice care, and I drove from New York to Charlottesville as fast as I could. 12 days since I drove to West Virginia to pick up her stuff. 10 days since my partner and sister-in-law drove her to Pennsylvania. 5 days since we got her into her own apartment. 1 day since I flew back to New York and slept in my own bed for the

I was exactly a quarter of the way through my hundred days of writing last Saturday. The week since has been, bar none, the worst week of my entire life.

I am not comfortable going into specific detail right now, but a close family member is in the process of dying. I found this out last weekend, made a marathon drive down to see them on Monday, and have spent the week discovering just how hard it is to die with dignity in America.

I had assumed that "going into hospice" meant there was a place you could go where