A Tribute to Hospice Nurses

6:45 P.M. You smile as I enter the room for my hourly check. You mumble that you are not in pain, but I see it on your face as I reposition you. I explain that my shift is ending and titrate your morphine drip. I turn off the light on my way out and ask if there is anything else I can do to make you comfortable. You say there isn't, and wish me a good evening. I leave, silently praying for you on the drive home.

7:00 A.M. You are not awake this morning, but at least you are not in pain. It is Sunday. Your family will visit. We bathe you, and you wake briefly. You decline food and water for the fourth day in a row. You are getting more tired and weaker. You are ready, but your son is due home from overseas, and you are waiting to say goodbye.

12:00 P.M. Family come and go. You wake for brief moments while they are here. Your son has not come. I treat your fever and your pain, reposition your pillows, and offer words of comfort that seem to fall flat, though you never say so.

5:30 P.M. I promised you a while back that I would not let you be uncomfortable. You have fought so hard already. You fought for our country, fought through cancer treatment, and now you are fighting for every breath. You deserve all the comfort I can give. I titrate your morphine again. I know you are in pain. I see you look past me. Your son is here. I feel the tension in your hand release. This is what you were waiting for. It is time to let go, so I let go.

1:00 A.M. I am awake. News of your passing will reach me on my next shift, but I already know you are free of pain and breathing easy. I am glad you left this earth with a loved one by your side. I am thankful I met you, and grateful for your service to our country. Thank you for your kindness to me until the very end.

Rest in peace, sweet friend.

Love, a nurse.

To every hospice nurse: thank you for caring for patients and families with this kind of dignity. It takes a special heart to do this work, and it does not go unnoticed.