In the Process of Dying, There is Living

When asked what I do for a living I proudly answer that I am a nurse.  People often want to know what area of health care I work in and, with some hesitation, I answer cancer care.  The response is usually a sad look with the comment “I don’t know how you can do what you do.”  The conversation usually changes quickly as I can tell how uncomfortable the person is and in my head I think, “How would they have reacted if I told them I work in palliative care?”

I learned a long time ago that in most social situations no one wants to hear that I work in palliative care and I usually only reveal this fact later.  When I first went into nursing I was so excited about the work I did that I wanted to tell people about it.  My friends and family have always been very supportive and interested.  But, after trying a few times to discuss situations from work that I was proud of or that I found quite amusing only to find my listener crying, I realized that I may not have a job that everyone is able to hear about.  I had accepted this and limited my stories to only vague tales or when I had days that were so hard I just had to talk to somebody regardless of their reaction. 

A year and a half ago this all changed.  My cousin was diagnosed with cancer and was being treated at the hospital where I work.  At first, we were able to keep these worlds separate as she was being treated and going to get better.  But, as things progressed, she asked me to be more involved and I, of course, would do anything she needed. 

I attended her appointments, I “translated” the information being given, I helped guide her through the system and eventually, I had to do what I never thought I would; I had to get her an appointment with the palliative care team, my team.  My worlds were colliding and I found myself faced with the unexpected.  I was faced with calls from family members wanting to know how she was doing.  They wanted to talk about my work, needed to talk about my work, because all of a sudden it was also my personal life. 

There was no more avoiding the conversations or changing the stories to make the listener more comfortable.  They now wanted to listen and were open to hearing what I have always known about my job – in all the sadness that it represents it holds the most beautiful and precious times you may ever experience with another person.   People want to hide from the fact that people die but they forget that in the process of dying, those individuals are living.  Those moments are filled with reflections of their happiest memories and funniest stories, their hopes for their loved ones’ futures.  Those moments are holding that person’s hand and feeling that you couldn’t be closer with them.  They are moments of honesty about life that we usually brush aside.  They are dignity and fear, they are laughter and trials. 

When my cousin was finally admitted to our palliative unit for the last time I would often arrive early in the morning and go into her room to have breakfast with her.  We talked about who had visited her the day before, we talked about her wishes for her children or her worries for her family caring for her and sometimes, we didn’t talk at all.  We would just be together.  As life rushed by outside those doors, those moments could fill a lifetime.  They are priceless to me.

With my cousin, I always tried to be just her cousin, her family.  But, what this time did was to allow others a look into my world and my work in palliative care and to see that this time does not have to be about loss because it is filled with the richest moments, the purest emotions and with living.

Allyson is an Advanced Practice Nurse on the Palliative Care Unit at a cancer care hospital in Toronto.  Allyson and her cousin, Madeleine, were born six days apart.  Maddy will always be close to her heart.