At the Bedside

“Gabby, I think Mom is dying.”

It was a text from the daughter of a woman I had been visiting for more than a year.

Six months earlier, her mother had looked at me and quietly said, “I’m ready to die. I just don’t understand why it’s taking so long.”

She was 93 years old. She had lived a full life. Her family had shared their goodbyes more than once because, for months, they believed each day would be her last. And each morning, she was still here.

That kind of waiting can be exhausting. Families often ask me why it takes so long, and my answer is always the same.

“The body knows what to do. We have to trust that.”

We can manage symptoms. We can prepare families for what they may see and hear. We can help someone remain comfortable and ease fear along the way. But we cannot tell the body when it is time to let go.

When I arrived that morning, I knew her body had finally reached that moment. She was letting go with remarkable grace.

Her daughter, who had been her primary caregiver, met me at the door. We had spoken nearly every day that week. She had faithfully given every medication exactly as prescribed, yet she questioned every sound her mother made, every pause in her breathing, every change she saw.

Like so many caregivers, she wasn’t afraid of doing too little, she was afraid of doing something wrong.

What weighed on her even more was the tension within her family. While she had devoted herself to caring for their mother, some of her siblings questioned the care she was providing.

When I told them their mother was dying, one of the first questions I heard was, “Did my sister make this happen?”

In that moment, I realized my role extended beyond preparing them for their mother’s final breath. I also needed to protect the daughter who had spent months lovingly caring for her.

As hospice professionals, we spend a great deal of time managing symptoms and educating families. But some of the most meaningful work we do has nothing to do with medications. Sometimes it is helping people find one another again.

A few minutes later, I gathered the family around the bedside and gently told them she was close. The daughter who had cared for her mother took her hand and sat quietly beside her.

Another daughter entered the room, her worry coming out as anger.

“Did my sister make this happen?”

I looked at her and quietly said, “Absolutely not. Your sister has provided beautiful, thoughtful, and compassionate care. The medication she gave was exactly what her mother needed to remain comfortable. It did not hasten her death. It simply gave her body the peace it needed to let go when it was ready.”

Tears filled her eyes.

She turned to her sister and whispered, “Thank you.”

A third daughter, who had remained mostly silent, stepped closer to the bed.

“Can she hear us?”

“Yes,” I said. “I believe she can.”

She looked at me again.

“What do I say?”

I smiled, took her hand, and said, “Tell her you love her. Tell her you’ll miss her. And tell her goodbye.”

She did.

They all did.

When their mother took her last breath, there was no anger.

No blame.

No harsh words.

There were simply three daughters sitting beside the woman who had given them life, comforting one another as they said goodbye.

Moments like these remind me that dying is never only about the person taking their last breath, it is also about the people who remain.

If I can help ease fear, replace uncertainty with understanding, and create space for love to be spoken before goodbye, then I know I have cared for everyone in the room, not just the person who is dying.

It doesn’t always unfold this way, families are complicated. Grief is complicated. But whenever possible, I hope to leave a bedside a little more peaceful than I found it.

xo

Gabby

You can find my book, "At the Bedside" here: https://a.co/d/jiR81za

This book is filled with patient stories, as well as some bedside tips for caregivers.

I also offer a class by the same name, which is an introduction to becoming an end-of-life doula. You can find the class details here:

https://www.thehospiceheart.net/at-the-bedside