What I Really Talk About All Day

When people hear that I’m a hospice nurse and a death doula, they often assume all I do is talk about death.

And to be fair… I do talk about death. A lot. At work and, admittedly, sometimes I bring down the mood at the dinner party. But if you ask me what I really talk about all day, the answer is more layered.

I answer questions about what to expect. I explain the physical changes that happen as the body begins to slow down. I help families understand medications, hospice, advance directives, and what a peaceful death can look like. I spend a great deal of time educating because knowledge has a way of softening fear.

But those conversations are only part of my day. The conversations I treasure most are often about life. Those conversations find their way home with me. They tug at my heart in the morning as I wake and sit down to journal.

I hear about first dates and sixty-year marriages. The exact moment they knew they had met the love of their life. How they continued to choose this love, year after year, through everything from illness and loss to ordinary Tuesdays. I learn about family traditions that have been carried on for generations, treasured recipes with no measurements written down, and vacations that become the stories everyone still tells decades later.

Sometimes it’s the red convertible they drove up the coast every weekend with their dad. How free that felt. Sometimes it’s the concert they almost didn’t go to but can still taste fifty years later. The dances in the kitchen. Summer camping trips. Military deployments. The Christmas nativity that took three days to set up every December. The tiny first apartment that had more love than furniture.

I hear about careers that people loved and careers that people simply endured. I hear about the child that made them laugh the hardest, the child that challenged them to their core, and the child they lost far too soon. I hear about siblings who could argue like dogs but would still drop everything for each other. I hear about lifelong friendships. Oh, to have been girls together. This is such a beautiful thing. I hear about first dogs, last dogs, and the best dog that they’ll never stop missing. I hear about regrets, from the quiet ones to the ones that gnaw at us.

I learn about the garden that bloomed every spring because their father tended to it like a sacred ritual. I learn why the whole family still cringes every time someone mentions the Hilltop on Route 1.

And then, just as quickly, the room erupts with laughter. You see people being exactly what they’ve always been. A husband and wife finishing each other’s sentences, siblings teasing each other, grandchildren proudly coloring a “get-well” card.

I am gifted perspective. I am gifted the wisdom that only the dying can offer. I ask people what they think makes a good life. Walk every day. Marry your best friend. Don’t stay angry. Make time for your people. Be present. Spend more time outside. Connect with a higher power, whatever that may mean to you. I tuck those little pieces of wisdom away. The things we spend much of our life chasing become background noise while the things that matter come into sharp focus. The fleeting nature of life becomes almost tangible, palpable, in these moments. You can feel it.

Death is part of the conversation, sure. But life always has a seat at the table too. This sacred transition isn’t only about preparing for an ending. It’s about recognizing everything that came before it. Every single person is an entire library. An entire world. A life lived. Shelves filled with stories, mistakes, victories, heartbreaks, inside jokes, songs, ordinary days, and extraordinary love. People often think my work is about death. They’re right. Of course it is. But what a privilege to honor both the ending and the life that came before it.