Working as a nurse in a hospice setting can be one of the most rewarding and profound experiences. It’s a place where the true essence of care extends beyond the clinical, and into the emotional, spiritual, and deeply personal moments that define a patient’s final days. Here, you learn that healing isn’t always about curing but about comforting—not about lengthening life but about making every remaining moment matter.
One afternoon, I entered a room where an elderly woman was surrounded by her family—her children, grandchildren, and even a great-grandchild resting quietly in a bassinet. There was an undeniable warmth in that room; love radiated in every smile, every tear, and every gentle touch. They shared stories and laughter, and sometimes sat in quiet reflection, simply holding her hand. It was a beautiful display of human connection, and the patient, though frail, seemed at peace.
Contrast this with another room I visited just down the hall, where a man lay alone. No familiar faces, no comforting voices—just the steady hum of the machines, and the ticking clock on the wall. He had no family near, and I did my best to be his comfort, but it was clear that something essential was missing. It was a heartbreaking reminder that in our final moments, it’s not just the absence of pain that matters but the presence of those we love.
The difference was palpable, and it struck me deeply. Family presence is not just a nicety—it’s a vital part of the journey. There is an unspoken power in simply being there, offering a hand to hold, a familiar voice, and a caring heart. I’ve seen patients’ faces light up when a loved one enters the room and, conversely, the quiet resignation in those who face their last days alone. It’s not that one patient is loved more than the other—it’s the difference in the kind of comfort and peace that family brings.
As nurses, we witness these final chapters up close, and we know that our role extends beyond administering medications or adjusting pillows. We are witnesses, companions, and often surrogate family. But even in our most compassionate moments, we can never fully replace the power of a loved one’s touch or the solace found in a familiar voice.
To families, I say: Do not underestimate the impact of your presence. It may feel like you are doing nothing, but in those moments of silence and stillness, you are giving the greatest gift of all—yourself. To my fellow nurses, let us continue to advocate for our patients, encouraging family involvement and reminding them that they are needed, even when words seem inadequate.
Ultimately, it’s not the perfect words or grand gestures that matter most; it’s simply showing up. The presence of family doesn’t change the outcome, but it profoundly changes the experience. And in the quiet of a hospice room, that presence speaks volumes.
As I walk the halls of hospice, I carry with me these stories of love, loss, and connection. They remind me daily of the power we all have to comfort each other and how, in our final moments, what we seek most is not medicine but the presence of those we hold dear.
Adetoun Oyekunle, MNSc, RN, FCNA (NZ), is a registered nurse/needs assessor at Capital and Coast Care Coordination Centre in Wellington, New Zealand, and a member of Sigma’s Xi Omicron at-Large Chapter.