health & wellness

During my first week as a hospice nurse, I spent a few days up at one of our organization’s hospice houses. A hospice house is typically a small unit, sometimes in a free-standing building, that provides an environment for people to get their symptoms managed so they can return home OR an environment for people to pass away. It’s all up to patients and families, but you can imagine how difficult a job that could be for staff. Patients either arrive in crisis or in an actively dying state. The amenities are positively amazing, and the entire place is set up like a birth center. I always tell people being a hospice nurse is like being a midwife, just on the opposite end of the life spectrum. There’s a kitchen for families, and a suite attached to each room for loved ones to stay overnight. There are stone fireplaces and chapels and gardens for walking and clearing the head and catching a breath. My favorite part of the hospice house, though, is the postmortem experience.

Stay with me, folks. The staff at this hospice house understand how difficult it is for families and even themselves, dealing with death day in and day out. So they’ve developed a beautiful ritual, a processional, for each patient’s passing. After a patient dies, the nurse walks outside and cuts a handful of rosemary, the herb of remembrance, from the gardens. The rosemary is tied up with ribbon and placed on the patient after they have received a bath. The staff follows the rosemary with a handmade blanket from a volunteer. And then the unit’s lights are dimmed, music playing and candles lit, while the entire staff follows the body outside to meet the funeral home vehicle. Every available employee lines up, from the nurses to the janitor to the cook, and they do their own thing. Some pray out loud, some sing, some sway back and forth, some just bow their heads in silence.

This is what we mean when we talk about death with dignity. Lord, don’t ever let me forget that.

Women these days love to talk about self-care. We want people to know we need it. We want women to feel zero shame about pursuing it. We also love to make excuses for why we don’t have margin for it. There isn’t enough time, or money, or childcare to take good care of ourselves. We seem to bring these things up when we aren’t well, in the middle of an emotional breakdown or a stressful argument.

And y’all? I’m calling bull**** on the excuses. I just don’t believe them. I used to make the same claims and they’re simply untrue. There is always enough time to brush your teeth an extra time during the day, or to make your bed. You just make the time. There is always enough money for a special coffee treat or a manicure. You just make the budget. There is always someone who will watch your kids while you go to counseling. You just make the ask. Self-care is not about always putting yourself first, or adding more extravagance and lush “you deserve this” to your life. Self-care is about being smart and being healthy, not being selfish.

Nobody needs a martyr. Your kids don’t, your husband doesn’t, your friends don’t, and your job doesn’t. This generation of women certainly does not. Here’s what I’ve learned over the last year… self-care isn’t just about you. Taking care of yourself pays off in the most socialist of ways, for the greater good of your community. Your tribe benefits when you’re well. Your kids, your husband, your friends, and your workplace all win when you’re at your best. They get your best you, and nobody is going to complain about that.

A cheerful woman is a whole woman. Whole women squeeze every last drop out of life, in order to fill themselves up so they can pour back out to the world around them. Squeezing every last drop out of life means taking excellent care of yourself. So stop making excuses! Go brush your teeth or something.

I once took care of a man who was trying to die. Sometimes, the dying patients are my favorite. Don’t get me wrong, I’m crazy about surgeries. Give me an otherwise healthy person who needs a little fix-up, and I’m in heaven. I’m not an adrenaline junkie, either. I don’t need the emergencies and the near-death stuff to make me come alive. I’m just as excited when people pass gas for the first time after an operation.

But every now and then, I get to take care of a man or a woman who’s at the end, someone who’s lived a full life and is ready to let go. If you’ve never been around an actively dying person, let me tell you something about it. It is a sacred, holy experience. Even if you aren’t a spiritual person, you’ll be one for a few minutes when you’re standing next to someone who’s literally about to breathe their last.

During the last several decades in this country, we’ve slowly forgotten how to let people die. We love medicine and we fear death. I heard it best described recently as “predatory.” We view the end as predatory, something dark that’s coming for us, something that needs to be beaten and overcome. Regardless of your views on death and what happens afterwards, it’s unavoidable. It happens to each and every one of us, and it’s not something to be feared or ignored. I’ve learned the beauty of the dying process over the last few years of my career, and I’ve had the privilege of helping a few family members see the beauty in it as well.

So back to the man who was trying to die. I can’t even remember his diagnosis, but I remember it was only slightly sudden. His wife had been dealing it for a few months, and she knew it wasn’t curable. Nonetheless, she doted and prodded and made big plans for his recovery. As he began to fade throughout my shift, she began to push harder. Let’s sit up and eat. Do you want me to call so-and-so for you? They’d love to hear from you. I can’t wait until we get you out of here. Take another bite. Wake up. Don’t sleep all day. Look at me.

He grew less responsive as the day wore on, and she grew more determined. The more agitated and restless he became, the more she paced and talked to him. After several hours, she asked me if I thought she should leave to check out nursing homes for him. She said she wanted to be prepared for the next step of his rehabilitation. We see this a lot, when people aren’t sure what to do with their grief. She asked one of the most loaded questions ever fired at a nurse. What would you do? I took a deep breath. I closed the door behind me and sat down next to her. I put my arm around her shoulders and I pointed at him.

I need you to look at him. Do you see how tired he is? Let him be tired. Be here with him.

The patient immediately settled down, bowing his head ever so slightly. It was almost as if he agreed with me, that someone what finally shooting it straight with his beloved. I pushed on to describe a bit of what she could expect to happen as her soulmate headed into his last few hours. How long do you think he has? Her eyes filled up with tears, and mine soon followed.

Not long. He’s been telling us all day. I think it’s time for you to just hold his hand. Just be tired with him.

I left them alone then but she called me into the room thirty minutes later, to confirm what she already knew. Her husband was gone. She smiled through her tears and gave me a tight squeeze. Thank you for what you did.

I wrote this story down so I wouldn’t forget that patient or his wife, but the truth is my job is full of these accounts. What a powerful place to be at work… walking into the dark, holding hands, and turning faces towards the light. And I chose this one to share because that day, those words taught me something. For a woman who is always on the move, who pushes to see progress, who tends to bulldoze her husband, I want to be a woman unafraid to someday just be tired with him.