Lately, one of the most disheartening patterns I’m noticing in hospice care is the number of people dying younger.
It’s not unusual anymore for me to walk into a room where one parent is in their 30s or 40s, and suddenly, their kids’ whole world is shifting. Working with families in this season is both sacred and gut-wrenching. I sit with their children, help them make fingerprints, and do my best to explain the unexplainable. And yet, no matter how many times I do it, it never stops hitting me: life feels so unfair.
Why is it that when a patient has young children, it feels like it ups the stakes? Maybe it’s because their kids are still writing their story, and suddenly one of their main storytellers is being taken away. There aren’t always neat answers to these questions. Sure, there are scientific explanations, but at the end of the day, it just plain stinks. And sometimes, sitting with that truth is the only honest thing to do.
There’s another layer too- one I don’t talk about often. Imposter Syndrome (oh hi, old friend). I’ve never been married. I’ve never had children. Sometimes I find myself wondering, who am I to support these families? How can I possibly understand their unique experience? The truth? I can’t fully. But what I can do is show up. I can sit in the room, hold space for their pain, laugh with them when memories bubble up, and be present in the quiet moments. Maybe that’s what matters most.
Hospice work reminds me daily that life is fragile, unfair, beautiful, and heartbreaking all at once. And sometimes, as I sip my morning coffee, I remind myself: it’s not about having all the answers- it’s about being there, heart wide open.