'My mum died 2 months ago. No one told me the "death admin" would be this hard.'

My mother died on June 13.

I am yet to grieve for her.

Not because I didn't love her. I did. Very much.

Not because my heart isn't broken. It is. In a way that will never fully heal.

But because I misunderstood what "it's all with the lawyers" meant when I spoke with my parents about their wills, and within hours of my mother's death, I found myself acting as both my mother's executor and my father's power of attorney.

Two months after losing Mum, I fear I've missed the mourning period, that the statute of limitations for grief has passed and I can no longer make my claim.

Watch: How to cope with grief after losing a parent. Post continues after video.

What happens after a person dies - by this, I don't mean the big afterlife question but rather all the legal and financial tasks that mark the end of life - is not something I knew much about.

Perhaps that's because I haven't experienced a lot of death, or because I'm not part of a close extended family but death admin, the minutia of bequeathing a person's estate, was completely unknown to me. I assumed it would involve filling in a few forms, writing emails, and possibly visiting a bank or two, and I was up for that. 

What I didn't know, what I never expected, was the extent to which my life would be consumed by the responsibility of honouring my mother's wishes and finalising her estate.

At 8 am, the day after my mother passed, I was on the phone, and for weeks afterwards, every spare moment I had was spent either on the phone, at my computer or meeting with someone who, rather than helping me, would make my life harder and more complicated.

I consider myself reasonably intelligent. I graduated from secondary school. Went on to university. Got a degree in business. I've led teams, negotiated complex government contracts and built relationships with stakeholders from MPs to families in crisis. I am, what you would call, a capable woman.

But death admin? That sh*t is tough.

During the last two months, it has broken me, more than once. I've cried tears of frustration, screamed my anger into pillows and hung up on people who were incapable of moving beyond their scripted response, to offer me help as I worked through complicated estate issues.

On paper, my mother's will appeared straightforward but added in a named executor who has dementia and secondary joint executors who didn't feel up to the task, and suddenly Mum's will didn't follow the estate script.

During more than one angst-ridden, self-doubting, sleep-deprived, middle-of-the-night ceiling-staring session I asked myself, how did I get here?

When Dad was first diagnosed with dementia, I helped my parents formalise their advance care plans, and their power of attorney and medical decision-maker documents. I also promised them I would support their wishes, to the end.

I kept that promise when it came time to cease medical treatment for my mum, despite me being interstate and not knowing if I would make it home in time to say goodbye (thanks for waiting for me, Mum).

I kept that promise when I moved Dad into the permanent care home of his choosing, though he had no memory of doing so and didn't understand why he couldn't live at home with Mum (Dad, I'm sorry you had to keep re-living the trauma of losing her).

I'm still keeping that promise today, as carve out a couple of hours of writing time between a meeting with a lawyer and a visit to the bank.

Because that's who I am.

But if I had known it was going to be this tough, that I would miss the window for grief, I would have said no. 

On the really bad days, when I've wanted to give up when I've felt like I was drowning in a sea of red tape, I've thought about the people who do not have the capacity or the experience I have.

The parent who loses a partner and has young children to care for.

The single parent who loses a child.

The older person who loses their partner with no children to support them.

Anyone with mental health issues.

How do they work their way through the multiple layers of bureaucracy and legality, whilst grieving the loss of their loved one and trying to keep their life intact?

Finding the time and space to grieve should not be this hard. And estate management need not be this complicated, there must be a better way.

It was an honour to hold my mother's hand in mine, whilst singing along to the Carpenters' Close to You, as she took her last breath. And I don't regret the time I've spent caring for my parents over the last four years, it brought us closer together and made making decisions for them easier.

Listen to No Filter where award-winning journalist and author Sarah Ferguson shares with Mia Freedman what it's like to face Mother's Day for the first time after losing your mum. Post continues after podcast.

But I do regret not asking more about their wills, and not ensuring it was updated after Dad's diagnosis before it was too late.

My husband and I are re-writing our wills, with a better understanding of the impact their wording will have.

If you don't have a will, write one, now.

If you have a will and your life circumstances have since changed, update it, and keep updating it every time you have a major life change.

When you write a will, think carefully about who you name as your executor and their ability to undertake the task, it is not for the faint-hearted.

And if someone you know loses a loved one, ask them if they need help. Taking the smallest of loads off their shoulders may be enough to keep their head above the waterline and allow them the space and time to grieve.

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Feature image: Supplied.