From the hospice nurse’s perspective

Grief

Sep 7

Am I a grown woman or a little girl?

Two weeks before my father took his last breath, he laid in a temporary bed provided by the hospice in the memory care unit of his assisted living. Just a few months earlier, he was living a full life in the same facility in an apartment with my mom, going on daily walks, and still driving short distances. Many events occurred between the independence of early February and the unwelcome discussion with the hospice nurse at the end of April, but there we were, nonetheless.

Misty, the hospice nurse, sat across from me in a hospital-like recliner, my father in his hospice bed, and my mother in her wheelchair. Misty explained the words “hospice” and why they were there. Essentially, it’s end-of-life care and making patients comfortable as they transition to their death. Misty explained the signs of the end of life and comforted me that we were not at that point yet. However, she kept referencing “the death rattle.”

Ugh. That sounds terrible, and I don’t want to hear it. Or do I? I was trapped between wanting him to die that day so he didn’t have to suffer and wanting him to live much longer so I could hold his warm hands.

As Misty continued explaining their treatment plan, I tried to follow her words to stay engaged. But, unfortunately, all I heard was, “Your dad is going to die.” I felt myself getting smaller in the faux leather recliner, which felt more like plastic, and my eyes left hers while I looked down at my hand, holding my father’s hand. I looked at my dad, then my mom (who appeared not to want to accept reality), and then back at the nurse. As my eyes welled with tears, I saw her sympathy. I could feel her looking at me, and the story I told myself was, “She feels sorry for me that I’m such a young girl who’s losing her dad.” I felt that way too. My dad was dying, and I was too young to lose him. I will now likely live more than half of my life without him, without one of the few people who, up to this point, had been with me my whole life.

I can’t believe it. I’m too young to lose a parent.

I returned home later that night to greet my husband and four kids. Two of my kids, my step-sons, lost their biological mom in 2018. I looked at them; differently; they were only five and nine when their mom died. A moment of perspective came over me. However, it wasn’t until later that night, as I washed my face in the bathroom sink, that I gained better insight. I washed my face like I have every other night since I started wearing makeup, toweled it off, and then looked directly at myself in the mirror. What I saw stunned me.

I am not a young little girl. I’m a 42-year-old woman. How could I have been so sure that I was so young just a few hours prior? I’m not saying 42 is old enough to lose a parent, but the message is once a child, always a child. I could have been 72 when he died, and I would have still felt the same. But instead, he was my dad, and one of my identities is his daughter. That doesn’t change with age.

To lose a parent is a life-changing event. It will change you in ways you never thought possible. I thought it wouldn’t be as bad as it is. So many examples and memories of my life include my dad. If you have your parents and are lucky enough to have a relationship with them, appreciate who they are while they are alive.

Life is precious, and our days with those we love are not promised. Don’t waste another day trapped living a life less than what you want!

Pause to reflect on what is important to you and who matters most. Build your life around those things.

Much love,

Molly

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