The RDP prompt for today is twelve. I searched my draft folder and found this incomplete post that had last been edited in February 2016. My mother died in November 2015. I wrote so many posts following her death. I think it was my way of untangling the knot—and it helped.
This post was never completed. When I read it this morning, a flood of memories engulfed me.
Here’s the post which I called “Terrible.” At the end, I’ll try to complete it — though the 10 intervening years surely have changed where I was going with the original.
THE ORIGINAL
The one nurse said, “Well, I guess you’ve never seen a dying person before.”
She was matter-of-fact. Tart. A little smug. Definitely too cheerful.
The other nurse was different. Compassionate. Caring. Gentle.
“Can I do anything for you?” she asked every time she checked on my mother. “Can I get you anything?”
With twelve hour shifts for the nurses, we mostly saw only these two.
When I would ask the first nurse
THE 2026 COMPLETION
When I would ask the first nurse for anything, she did her job, but with so little compassion that I ended up avoiding her. Truth be told, today I can’t even picture her.
Forgettable — that’s what she was. I’m glad I didn’t spend time dwelling on her.
What I remember about my mother’s final hospital stay are definitely the kindnesses:
The other nurse bringing food in for us.
The doctor who called a family meeting. She began with these words, “Mom is very sick, and she isn’t going to get better.” She went on to talk about the fact that modern medicine could keep her alive, but we should think about what was best for her. One of my brothers still refers to her as “the doctor that told us to kill Mom.” It’s that dark famiy sense of humor that we have. I have no doubt in my mind that it was the right decision.
A group of women from the church came to the hospital room and sang to my mother. They had all been in the choir with her, and now they sang for her. It still brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Out-of-tune warbly voices of older women joined in some of the most beautiful music I’ve heard.
My siblings and I gathered around the bed, each telling my mother that we loved her. My youngest brother told my mother that it was okay for her to go. I had heard that it can be important to say that, and he said it, all the while rubbing her foot as he stood at that end of the bed.
I feel pity for that nurse whom I had labeled “Terrible.” Her words, I guess you’ve never seen a dying person before, are so hollow.
I don’t know what prompted them, but today, I would take her hands in mine, and say, “I hope that some day, you can gather with your family around the bed of someone you love very much, and you can be with them when they pass. It’s a beautiful thing.”
Terrible vs. beautiful. I’ll remember the beautiful.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 
Sally, it is beautiful – that there were so many people who loved and cared about you and your mother. We sang my father into heaven and it was healing for us as a family. You were fortunate that the doctor had the guts to tell you the truth. We didn’t have that. I remember many things about that time and that we came together as a family. The nurses came to the funeral which I don’t think happens very often…
Sally this is a very heartfelt piece my friend. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you Sally for sharing this heartfelt story 💜
Caring and compassion makes all the difference. It really does 💜💜💜
Thanks for such a heart felt memory. It hits me especially because My Mom passed away 6 months ago yesterday, and my Dad is now showing similar signs of decline. I am reading your post having spent the last 3 nights in his hospital room.
I think your piece is really aided by the passing of time. There is something about terrible that wants our immediate attention and it sometimes puts the terrible more front and center than it deserves. The fact that you have essentially forgotten the nurse who was not kind speaks volume to the necessity of kindness.
My heart goes out to you. My mother clearly had dementia, but my father seemed to be holding it all together. After she died, it seems like he just let go. I became his full-time caregiver for the last three years of his life. I don’t regret one second of it.
What you’re doing is incredibly hard but also incredibly important.