The other day I was laying down thinking about how I just accepted a new position as a Hospice & Palliative RN, and how I was going to be surrounded by death and the devastating aftermath it leaves once it sweeps a room... 

I am afraid.  

I know what you’re thinking. If I am afraid of death, why on earth would I accept the job? But this is a newly discovered fear; a fear that has crept its way into my life after my father passed away.  

It still feels surreal. It still feels unfair. It still hurts like it happened yesterday. 

It was February 20th, 2019. I had just packed up my apartment in Michigan and had decided to start a new chapter in my life with my children and fiancée in Florida. So many emotions that day. Leaving my family and best friend, was the hardest part. I was anxious to be in a new place, yet I was excited to have my little family together at last. What was supposed to be an overall happy day for me, was about to take a turn for the worst.  

We landed in Ft. Lauderdale and had just left baggage claim. I checked my messages and I had one from my brother. It read 

 “Hey sis I need to talk to you about something that happened.”  

I thought nothing of it honestly. Our ride arrived, I got the boys strapped into their car seats and attempted to process the change that was about to take place in my life. Then my phone rang. It was my brother.  

“Something bad happened.”  

He was... quiet.  

“Pops died.”  

Everything after that is a blur. I could hear him talking but I couldn’t make out the words. My heart was in the pit of my stomach, but I could feel it beating as if it was going to burst. And in a sense, it did. My whole body went completely numb. I couldn’t move. This easily became the worst day of my existence.  

I hung the phone up and after sitting in silence for what seems like an eternity, it hit me. My daddy was dead. I started screaming. The kids began to cry in the back seat, frightened by my hysterical behavior. But I didn’t care, and I didn’t stop. Junior pulled the car over, and I hopped out. The world was spinning, and I tuned everything and everyone out. It was just me there with this darkness that seemed to strangle me. I wept until I literally could not breathe. I’ve cried myself to sleep what seems like every night since then.  

I’ve tried to put this grief in the back of my mind. It’s draining. Exhausting. Almost debilitating to be forced to deal with the pain that’s left behind after you lose someone. But as I embark on my new role as Hospice nurse, I cannot help but think that maybe I’m not ready.  

Hospice care focuses on relieving a patient’s symptoms, making sure that they’re comfortable, making sure that the remaining time they have left is meaningful and not spent in any pain or suffering. As a nurse, I have trained myself to put the needs of my patients first. But now, I am in pain. I am suffering; and it is my job to be there for and comfort others in theirs. How am I going to be able to ignore my grief, yet support others in experiencing their own?  

I am tired of short changing myself. I want to allow myself to be weak and vulnerable, to cry all the tears that I have been keeping bottled up inside of me. I need to feel all the pain that I have been so desperately trying to hide from. I am not okay – and that’s okay. I am only doing myself a disservice if I pretend to be strong all the time. There’s that saying that goes “God gives the hardest battles, to His strongest soldiers” but I am tired of being one of His strongest soldiers. For once, I want my battles to be easy, simple.  

And then He spoke to me. 

Your battles are hard because you rely on your own understanding. You attempt to handle this alone and carry the pain by yourself when that was never my intention for you. I have never left you, never went anywhere beyond your reach, but you stopped reaching. It is you, daughter, who has forsaken me. And yet, I love you all the same. I desire to be one with you, to make you whole again, to turn your pain into power. But you must allow me to do so. Come talk to me about your troubles like you use to. Surrender your heart to me like you did way back when I filled you with my spirit. It is time for you to release everything that exalts itself against my word. It will only hinder your growth. I know the plans I think towards you, and you know too. It’s time to start acting like it. I chose you; And because I chose you, I have called you. You cannot see what I am cultivating in you now, but one day it will all make sense. But for now, you must trust me. I made you for this. 

I have been afraid of what I will feel if I truly allow myself to try and heal from this. Today, I release that fear. I will honor my loss, because I deserve to.  

Loss redefines who you are, but maybe it has a purpose. I am hoping that in this, I become closer to the woman God has destined me to be way back in my mother’s womb.  

I can do this.  And if you’re here, feeling the same way, you can too.

With Love,

Nurse Z