In September 2020, my dad was hospitalized after a fall. When I arrived in Florida to be with him, something felt different. He had been in the hospital before, but this time I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.
For five days, I stayed by his side—helping with therapy, assisting the nurses, changing his sheets. I wanted nothing more than for him to recover, to go back home, just as he always had after previous hospital stays. I pleaded with local rehab centers to admit him so he could regain his strength, but each one turned him away, saying his care needs were too great. I didn’t understand what that meant.
Determined, I told my dad we would go home together. I would care for him until he was back on his feet. Then, on Friday, the doctor told me something I wasn’t prepared to hear: my dad wanted to return home under hospice care.
“Hospice?” I thought. He doesn’t need hospice. He isn’t dying. My dad never mentioned this to me, and I struggled to accept it. Looking back, I believe he knew something I didn’t and chose to keep that truth between himself and his doctors. My role, as I came to realize, was to simply be there for him.
The hospice team quickly stepped in, arranging for a hospital bed, supplies, and all the support we would need for him to come home the very next day. They explained everything with such compassion and reassured me at every step. Still, I was scared. I had never cared for him in this way before, but with hospice doctors, nurses, aides, and a social worker by my side, I never felt alone.
At first, I believed he was improving, just more slowly than expected. But after a few days, I saw the changes—he slept more, needed pain medication, and I began to understand the truth I had been avoiding: my dad might not make it. Hospice gently prepared me for what was ahead, supporting me not only in his care but in my own grief.
The next morning, my dad held my hand, whispered, “I love you,” and peacefully passed away. My heart shattered, but at the same time, I felt a deep sense of peace. Hospice had given me the gift of preparation and presence. I was not crushed because I had been gently guided to understand and accept what was happening.
When I called hospice, the nurse came immediately. Even she was surprised at how quickly my dad passed. With compassion, she helped me through those first heartbreaking moments. She even helped me shave him, an act of dignity and tenderness that I will never forget. She stayed with me until the funeral home arrived, ensuring I was never alone.
There will never be enough words to express my gratitude to hospice. My dad, his doctors, and God knew what I needed, even when I didn’t. I will forever be thankful for the blessing of hospice—the people who stood by me, cared for my dad, and helped me find peace in the midst of loss.
