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Sipping my morning coffee a week ago and scrolling through my inbox, I was caught off guard seeing a message from my mother with the subject heading, "Mumbai bombing."

She was staying at the Oberoi Hotel, site of one of the attacks by terrorists in Mumbai last week that left almost 200 people dead and hundreds injured. She hadn't been at the hotel during the attacks, but had been having dinner at the family home of my sister's boyfriend. In her e-mail, she reassured us that she was safe and sound.

As the day progressed, I began to see images in the news of blood-smeared train stations and sobbing locals. I didn't panic, but wondered if my mother was okay. Would the violence escalate? I pleaded in an e-mail: "Please, Mom, don't take any risks whatsoever."

Three weeks ago she had summoned me to her local pub for a "serious" talk. I presumed that once again I would be lectured on the state of our economy, but it wasn't the stock market or my mortgage up for discussion. It was the uplifting conversation that begins with, "If I die …"

Nervous about her expedition to India, she had taken every precaution. Over beer and shepherd's pie, she opened a briefcase to unveil a mound of secret documents. Phone numbers, maps, passwords, account numbers — it was practically James Bond. Every potential emergency had been accounted for, be it a plumbing disaster, a furnace meltdown or invasive raccoons.

Although nearly 30, I admit I was caught gazing at incoming text messages like a bratty teenager.

"Listen, this is important," she said.

"Yeah, yeah — but you aren't going to die," I responded with rolling eyes.

My mother hadn't embarked on the truly unknown since the late 1960s. Back then it was easy to be content with a few books and a sack of clothes, but the retired tourist wants the comfort of a clean washroom, fresh sheets and continental breakfast. That said, her trek to India with a small tour group was a far cry from the familiar footings of Europe. Excitement and anticipation were mingled with nervousness.

Over the past couple of weeks, she sent e-mails from India detailing elephant rides and exotic food. Early last week she wrote: "I can't begin to describe the cacophony of sound mixed with movement, smell and visual stimulation which this city offers. … I would wish that sooner or later you can enjoy a similar journey as this."

Although she wasn't roughing it in hostels with a knapsack, she still had passion and a thirst for adventure, which I admire.

The evening after I received her e-mail about the terrorist attacks, I missed a phone call from her. I eventually got through on a crackly line to the home of the aunt and uncle of my sister's boyfriend, where she was staying. As her e-mail had said, she was perfectly safe, but I couldn't help bursting into tears upon hearing her voice. She responded, "What's wrong sweetheart? I'm fine. No need to cry — I'm completely okay."

By Thursday, with the news all over the front pages, my mother sent another e-mail about the half-day tour she had taken the morning of the attacks, her first full day in Mumbai. Her group had visited three of the sites where the violence had occurred: the Taj Mahal Palace & Tower hotel, the train station and the Leopold Café, where they had eaten lunch.

"All of these places have witnessed shootings during the night and grenades at the Taj, which is now burning, and of course our own hotel, where at this moment they are still holding four hostages. I am quite frightened for my poor travelling mates who are holed up at the Oberoi."

Advised by the Canadian consulate to stay put, my mother spent a day and night panicking about her tour group. Finally, she received word they were okay. They had been in the hotel restaurant when gunmen raided, and had hidden under a table before escaping and finding refuge at a neighbouring bank. They waited there for 16 hours, traumatized and soaked in strangers' blood. Mom credits their survival to being "quick, smart and very strong."

The chaos left a trail of ungodly, inexplicable acts of destruction, violence and death. Family and friends want to know when my mother will return home, but she lets us know: "I fully intend to finish the tour … and have only the warmest feelings about this country."

I applaud her for having the tenacity to push on. A malicious group will not deter her from exploring the world.

She has also bonded with the family of my sister's boyfriend. Had she joined her friends at the hotel for dinner that night instead of being safe at their home, there's no telling what would have ensued. "I suspect that I would never have been able to keep up. I am very indebted," she wrote.

Next time I get the death talk, I'll pay attention. Until then, I'll count my blessings.

Jen McNeely lives in Toronto.