Hopefully, you have a friend like Bria. Bria is no-nonsense. Bria is compassion-defined, gentle, and passionate. Bria is a hospice nurse.
Bria and I met years ago during our herbalist training. That course was a beautiful and magical experience. It required grit, fun, physical and emotional strength, vulnerability, and intensity all at once, every day.
Little did I know that those days of studying herbalism and meeting Bria were preparing me for a series of significant choices in my life—choices with real-life and death consequences.
Fast forward eight years. My husband is deep into at-home hospice care. Overnight, I had to become a nurse, administering a kind of drug to my husband that I’ve only seen hurt people, not help them. There were knocks on the door at midnight from the courier delivering meds, the dog goes crazy, and I’m trying to keep everything calm and cool so I don't wake the kids. Raising kids at home while my husband was sick for three and a half years has been a challenge, to say the least, but this was a whole other level.
I couldn’t keep up. I had to get the kids up, make breakfast, pack lunches, carpool, plan dinner, help with homework, and be my husband’s nurse, all on just a few hours of sleep each night—not typically consecutive hours. And his pain was only getting worse. He was starting to have that distant look in his eyes; his words were becoming jumbled. I was losing him so quickly, and I didn’t even fully realize it in that moment. I didn’t want to be his nurse; I wanted to be his wife. A decision had to be made—we needed to move him to in-house hospice care.
Surreal. In-house, a switch flipped. He was agitated and restless. He was nothing like the man I had fallen in love with 20 years ago. I had never seen him act aggressively; he was my gentle giant. My beautiful husband. What had happened to him? How did we get here? And when? We’d been living with this disease for almost four years at this point. How did this all go to shit so quickly?
As his spouse, I communicated with doctors and nurses and made decisions I had hoped never to make. What was the best choice for him? Should we increase his medication again? Opt for full sedation? Why had I packed a week's worth of clothes? I kept hoping we would return home—that this was just a blip. I didn’t want to look too deeply. I was in shock at his sudden and rapid decline.
The hospice staff, angels in waiting, pulling me aside, gently suggested a Johnny and full sedation. But he loves the green t-shirt, I’d protest. It’ll make him feel better, I said. My mind became filled with cotton instantly. I didn’t know what to do, what was best, who to trust, what to say…. and the unsolicited opinions tossed at me… It was too much. I needed a lifeline.
My commitment to my beloved was to help him feel as comfortable as possible and to ensure he would not suffer anymore. He endured such suffering! It’s enough to break anyone. But now, he needed help to rest, find peace, and seek the quiet.
I moved to a quiet space and called Bria. I said what I said, and this is what I heard back: “He needs to rest. Let them do it. I love you.”
Fully sedated, he passed away peacefully three days later. It was a strange privilege to witness the love of my life take his last breath and be freed from his pain.
I hope you have a Bria in your life when you need it.
Thanks for listening.
Love, Julie.