Adventures of the Traveling Grief Case

True Strength in the Midst of Death

Sometimes we look back on events only to realize how significant they really were. They don’t always seem significant at that moment. They may, but not in the way you thought.

In May 2018, they admitted my friend Maritza to hospice. She wasn’t yet fifty years old. In fact, she celebrated her 48th birthday in hospice several days before she passed from cancer. I wouldn’t consider us to be close friends, but more like extended family.

It was a Friday evening when I went to visit her. I knew this would be my last time seeing her. Walking into the room that evening, I found myself in shock.

Maritza had lost so much weight that I barely recognized her. When she spoke, I was even more surprised. Her voice was a squeaky whisper.

I didn’t know what to say when I visited.

What do you tell a dying friend?

What do you talk about?

It was a strange position to be in.

We all knew the outcome was death, but it’s not something you bring up. How does one broach the subject?

There were several friends and family members there visiting upon my arrival. Eventually, everyone left, and it was just her and I. She told me her daughter was coming to spend the night, so I figured I would hang out until she arrived. We sat quietly for the most part as she would drift in and out of sleep.

It started getting later into the evening when her phone rang. I could tell by her conversation that there was a misunderstanding. She hung up the phone, and I found out her daughter couldn’t come.

“Do you want me to stay?” I asked.

I honestly didn’t know what else I could do. I felt bad leaving her alone, but I also got the feeling she didn’t want to be left alone.

In her Maritza way, she said, “If you want to. You don’t have to.”

I knew I didn’t have to, but I also knew her personality. She would never just say yes. She wouldn’t try to convince me she needed me there.

But what else could I do?

I knew I couldn’t change the outcome. I knew I couldn’t fix things. This was all I could do.

Just sit with her.

Be with her.

Make sure she wasn’t alone. 

The nurse came in shortly after I decided to stay. She asked if I needed anything and showed me how the chair folded down into a bed.

She left the room, only to return with some sheets, a toothbrush, and a Johnny-type top for me to sleep in since I didn’t have any extra clothes.

We set up the bed for the night, and I thanked her for her help and amenities. There are many details of that night that I don’t remember.

But what I remember is what I learned.

I learned what true strength looks like amid death.

I remember helping Maritza to the bathroom and how, even in her state of weakness, she took paper towels and wiped down the sink. I remember thinking if there were such things as angels on earth, God had placed every one of them right here in this building. I couldn’t imagine the strength and compassion these nurses had. How could they do this job every single day? How could they comfort these grieving families and watch people cross over daily? 

As I lay in the bed that night, overwhelmed with emotion, tears rolled down my cheeks. I put all my effort into keeping quiet so she wouldn’t hear me cry.

Lying there awake, I felt guilty for the tears. I knew that when I left in the morning, my life would go on as usual.

What right did I have to cry? I wasn’t in any physical pain. I wasn’t the one dying! Maritza was the hero here.

She was the one lying in pain and living her last few days in bed. She couldn’t really eat and could barely talk.

But grief is for the living, right? Those who pass on will no longer feel the pain. It’s on us, the living, to endure it once they are gone. 

What I didn’t know that night was that this experience would help prepare me for my father’s death. I’ve said before that there is no preparation in grief, but some situations can teach you about the process.

I didn’t know that in less than six months, I would be just down the hall in the same building, on the same floor, watching my dad pass away.

What I didn’t know was how my experience that night would help me and my family. Staying that night and making connections with the nurses there helped me get a closer view of the facility. When caring for my dad, became too much for my mother, I was able to encourage her to move him to hospice.

“Mom, remember I stayed there one night? I’m telling you that the place is amazing! The staff are like angels on earth. I didn’t see one miserable nurse in the place. You won’t have to do anything but be with him,” I said.

That’s when I realized Maritza had given me so much more that night. That’s when I knew I was meant to stay. Not just for her. Not just for me. But also for my mom and my dad. So I could help my mother confidently decide to move him. 

Sometimes in life and in grief, we learn lessons we don’t even know we need. 

Years later, I can see how my grief helped me to leave a 20-year career in insurance. When you experience a significant loss, you realize there is bigger meaning in life than just a boring nine-to-five job that no longer makes you happy.

You think of your own mortality and want to make more out of your life. Not just want to, but need to.

Maybe you don’t need to save the world or create world peace, but you just know there’s more. Your need for purpose becomes bigger. Even if you don’t quite know what that purpose is, you look for ways to find it.

One day, you glance back and see how all the little things brought you to right to where you are supposed to be.

God, or the universe, or whatever you believe in, will show you signs you are on your path. When I started writing about my dad, it was for me. It was also my therapy is to help me navigate through grief.

When I started writing these essays, each step came to me as I needed it. Whether it was a free writing class or people that were put in my path, each small sign showed me that grief was bigger than tears and sadness.

That grief was universal.

That grief was something everyone experienced, and maybe my experience could help someone navigate theirs, too. All the emotions that make you feel crazy. And you remember all the little things that got you through.