I was her hospice nurse — and she entrusted me with her story

I

’ve been a nurse for more than a decade now, and a hospice home care nurse for the past five years. I’m with my patients at their most vulnerable moments.  I’ve experienced the full gamut of emotions, sometimes all in one hour. There are things I’ve seen that I can’t unsee, things I’ve felt I can’t unfeel. Some days I question why I ever went into this field. Other times I realize how lucky I am to spend time in an environment that spurs me to think about what kind of person I want to be, what I want to do with the time I have on this earth.

I've been with people at their most vulnerable. I’ve seen strong looking men dissolve into tears, and meek women act as the rock for their families. I’ve seen some families rise to the occasion and others families crumble under the pressure. I've seen individuals embrace the opportunity to share their feelings and love at the end of their lives, and I’ve seen others take their secrets to the grave. I’ve seen people pass peacefully with their families surrounding them, and I’ve held the hands of those taking their last breaths all alone.

I’ve been part of so many stories, but only at the end, always wishing I’d known my patients earlier in their journeys. It’s not easy to see past the exterior of sickly, elderly individuals, locked away in their own heads, unable to share the rich life experiences they must have had. But every so often I’ll have an alert, oriented patient, who’s able to paint that bigger picture for me, and I’ll catch a glimpse of the vibrant person they once were.

It was a beautiful, sunny day in July 2017 when I met Miriam Rosenberg* for the first time. With a name like Miriam,  I knew she must be Jewish, and I felt the familiar tingle of excitement mixed with worry that I always feel when I have a Jewish patient. Will I make a kiddush Hashem? Will I help this Yiddishe neshamah on its final journey to Olam Haba?