It’s Thursday morning, one day after V died. My phone dings. I see it’s Michael. I wonder what he’s going to say. He wasn’t the one who told me about V’s death last night, so I wonder why he’s texting.
Meeting Michael
I first met Michael, a hospice nurse, only weeks earlier. I had signed up V for hospice care after her brief stay in the hospital due to a UTI. The hospital staff, seeing her decline, asked me if I’d considered hospice for her. No, I hadn’t.
But now I would.
Two days later back at V’s facility, I introduced myself to Michael when he came to finalize the hospice paperwork and to meet V in person.
He was gentle with her. And kind to me. I noticed both. I appreciated both.
Michael explained to me how hospice would work. He or a fellow nurse would check on V every few days, as an extra layer of care above what she was already getting at her facility. As death became more imminent, they would make daily visits. Someone would inform me of her condition after each visit, or I could talk to them directly at the facility as they made their visit.
Life and Death Updates
True to his word, Michael regularly gave me a phone call or sent me a text after his visits with V. Even though our interchanges were typically brief, they were meaningful because of their content—life and death.
On one Wednesday morning, Michael texted me that V was unresponsive. But she was comfortable. I replied that I appreciated him watching over her. I had seen her a couple days earlier myself, and planned to visit again in a day or two.
But late that Wednesday night, everything changed.
Jeff and I were watching the news in bed. We had been under tornado warnings all night. And while the storms weren’t over yet, the worst seemed behind us—only thunderstorms remained—so we flicked off the TV to go to sleep.
Until my phone rang.
Middle-of-the-night phone calls rattle awake the body and soul. And usually for good reason. This was no exception.
The Final Call
This call was from a nurse I had not met, gently telling me that my friend V had just passed away. I was shocked, although I shouldn’t have been. I knew V’s time was short.
The nurse reassured me that V had not suffered, and that her passing was peaceful. She advised me to stay home and not venture into the bad weather; there was nothing I could do tonight.
I lay in bed as my mind raced through details I’d need to handle Thursday morning. Tell V’s brother. Finalize burial arrangements. Talk with staff at the nursing facility.
And grieve the loss of my friend.
An Unexpected Apology
It was mid-morning on Thursday when my phone dinged with the text from Michael. His message expressed condolences for my loss. And an apology.
“I’m sorry I did not give you more warning…I did not expect it so soon.”
I paused, taking in his words. I appreciated the apology, but it wasn’t necessary. I held no hard feelings for his lack of notice–who can accurately predict the exact moment of someone’s passing?
I typed out my reply. “Thank you, Michael. I appreciate your tenderness with V these past weeks. I’m glad she’s relieved of her body now.” And hit send.
He responded immediately with “Yes, I understand. Thank you. I wish peace for you also…”
And with that, our brief yet significant friend was completed. Michael had served his purpose in my life well, leaving a lasting impact despite our short acquaintance.
In life we occasionally cross paths with kind souls for only brief periods of time. From beginning to end, I’d only known Michael for a few weeks. Yet he left a mark on me more profound than some people I’ve known for years.
May we never underestimate the importance of fleeting exchanges, of short friendships. Even brief encounters can leave lasting impressions.
To those of you who have done end-of-life care, you are beautiful humans. Thank you for what you do. Share your thoughts in the comments.
