Quiet. Maybe not quiet, but definitely not the constant, clackety-clack talk of commercial radio. I tuned the car radio to the classical music station. When they talked, they whispered. I felt wrung out, my nerves frayed, yet at peace.
Hospice deaths are so different from deaths in acute care. I knew he was close. His breathing had changed, but I also knew it could be hours. It was 4:30 on a Friday afternoon and I was ready to be done with my week. The apartment was full of friends and family, full of an energy that was neither nervous nor productive. It felt like the buzz of being. The man's wife and daughter were in the bedroom with him.
As a nurse, I have always been struck by the intimate moments I share with strangers. As a hospice nurse, I am struck that these moments are shared in bedrooms, the ultimate intimacy. Tearful resolve was what I saw in his wife's face. His daughter had a mix of grief, worry, and love. We had gone over the medications again. Next dose, what to do if this or that happened, who to call, and last-minute questions.
I looked at him one last time and thought, if I want to go, I'd better go right now. I hesitated, and he beat me to it. His breathing had changed in the last hour to short breaths with long periods without breath. This gap was much longer. I froze. His breathing had completely stopped. His daughter looked at me. I'll never forget her face. Surprise, questioning, and realization passed over her in milliseconds. I bit my lip and nodded almost imperceptibly. She quietly called, "Mom." His wife, who'd been making notes on the nightstand, looked up and searched her daughter's face. She shifted her weight on the bed and grasped her husband's hand. Both women began crying and talking to him.
The fullness of the atmosphere in the room was stunning. I hadn't known this family for long. But I knew he was still in that room. And these women knew it too. I felt an awkward mix of wanting to leave and wanting to stay, to give them space but also to witness and be bathed in the love and light. I stood, still frozen to the spot where I had contemplated bolting. I waited for them to signal that the initial intimacy and expansiveness of the moment of death had passed and they were ready for next steps. Then I did my official pronouncement of death and asked if they wanted me to send others into the room.
The next few hours are usually my favorite. The liminal time between the hard part and the harder part, the leaving and the goodbye. Stories were told; pictures passed around; love, laughter, and grief filled the rooms. The buzz hummed louder, and I could feel the reverberation. I called my relief nurse and said my goodbyes.
I gathered my things and got into my car for the ride home. The world outside had no idea what had just happened. They carried on getting gas, honking at red lights, and crossing the street like life is not fragile. I tried to absorb these feelings and this sense of sacred space and time. But soon I too would be swallowed up with grocery shopping and the other mundane life events that make life. I had this car ride home to hold this space. This gift. Life is life until it's not-then there is only love left, glorious, big, audacious love.