Spend even one day in Sayulita and I am certain you will hear someone drop the "p" word. It's not surprising. Visually, Sayulita is stunning: a string of spectacular beaches cordoned off by lush flora that begs to be photographed or painted. Add persistently sunny skies and warm ocean breezes, and you can't help but to concur that you have indeed found paradise.

Two weeks ago I left Sayulita for New York. After landing at JFK, I slipped into the restroom to shed my sandals, don my fleece, and mentally prepare myself for the biting wind that was most certainly awaiting me. March in New York: never anyone's idea of paradise.

I went to New York because my mother had been hospitalized again. Upon entering her room, I found my mom tethered to an IV pole, gritting her teeth as a well-meaning nurse attempted to draw blood from Mom's ever-shrinking veins. This time Mom didn't express surprise when she caught sight of me. Her weary "hello" told me all I needed to know: this tough Irish gal had finally had enough.

Not long after my arrival, a fast-talking doctor graced my mom and me with his presence. His obligatory five-minute "drive-by" shed little light on what could be done for my mom. When pressed for more information it quickly became clear that the doctor was irritated; he did not like me peppering him with questions. As he had told me in the past, "She is, after all, 94." This verbal shrug enraged me.

Each day nurses and aides fawned over my tiny nonagenarian, telling her how good she looked for her age, how marvelous it was that she still had her own teeth. In hushed tones, they expressed their surprise at "how sharp she is" adding, "I hope you have her genes." I hope I do not.

Days passed, new medications were tried, blood was given, and samples were sent to the lab. But Mom looked and felt no different than she did the first day I arrived. Each day she asked me when she would feel better. I told her "give it time." I didn't know what else to say.

For far too many days, my family and I huddled together sharing overpriced junk food from the hospital "caf�," careful to avoid meaningful conversation and anxiously awaiting any small bone we might be tossed by my mom's ever-growing team of doctors: "white blood cell count is good; blood pressure under control; the infection appears to be subsiding." My family was hungry for each bone. We allowed ourselves to be lulled into believing mom's days of reclining in her living room chair watching Law and Order were just around the corner.

Two weeks in, a young internist dropped the "p" word into a conversation with my brothers and me. But this "p" word had nothing to do with paradise, quite the opposite. This "p" word was palliative, as in palliative care. My brothers and I were advised to meet with the hospital social worker. The hallway in which we were standing began to spin. For the past few years, palliative care and hospice workers had played starring roles in my family's world. I could not bear to think about, let alone discuss, this "p" word. The three of us nodded and fled to different parts of the hospital. We never mentioned that "p" word again.

Mom is now home. The incessant beeping of the hospital machinery has ceased, replaced with the dull hum of the oxygen machine. The 24-hour aide has once again taken up residence. The visiting nurse can be heard pecking away on her laptop, logging in the latest set of vitals.

Each of my family members has taken on different tasks: Jim arranging for the hospital bed to be delivered; Patti ensuring all pills are sorted and placed in the correct slots in the large plastic pillbox; Bill keeping the refrigerator fully stocked with Ensure; Susan locating her recently departed father's device to measure oxygen levels; Skip keeping Mom's favorite foods coming in hopes that she can be enticed to eat something, and all of us-four children, three daughter-in-laws, one son-in-law, seven granddaughters, and two grandsons-visiting Mom and doing the one thing we all seem to share a talent for, making her laugh.

Sleeping upstairs as I would normally do just didn't feel like an option. So when everyone left and Mom took her final daily dose of painkillers, I rolled out a floor mat next to her bed and settled in for the night. Within a short time, Mom was fast asleep. Throughout the night, she conversed aloud with my dad, sister, uncle, aunt, niece, and grandparents, all of whom are deceased. Each night the conversations resumed. At first this saddened me. It stirred up my own grief. But after a few nights, I realized that during that time my mom was not in pain; she was not sad. She was, in fact, in paradise.

I am now on a plane headed back to Sayulita. Before I left, my mom asked me to come back soon. She told me she sleeps much better when I am there beside her. I know it's really the painkillers and not me, but if I play even a small part in opening that door to her paradise, I will do it.