She Waited Until He Wasn’t Alone

There are moments in hospice nursing that stay with you—not because they were dramatic or chaotic, but because they were quiet, sacred, and deeply human. This is one of those moments.

I was working as a hospice nurse, training another nurse who was new to taking on-call visits. One evening we were sent to a very rural home, far out in the country. An older gentleman lived there with his wife, who was our hospice patient. She lay in a hospital bed in the living room, and he sat in a chair pulled close to her side. He never left that spot.

He had called because he was worried. There may have been a change in her breathing or another symptom—I don’t remember exactly what prompted the call. What I do remember is his fear. His wife was unresponsive, and he was afraid to give her the Ativan tablets prescribed to help with anxiety and rest. We showed him how to crush the medication, mix it with a small amount of water, and gently give it to her as a slurry. The other nurse and I administered that medication along with pain medication, then spent time reassuring him and answering his questions.

Eventually, he shared what was really weighing on his heart.

He told us he was afraid his wife was going to pass soon—and that he didn’t want to be alone when she did.

I explained that while we could stay for a little while, it wasn’t possible for us to remain until she passed. Based on her vital signs, there was no indication that death was imminent. It could be hours, or it could be morning. We simply didn’t know.

Still, he repeated that he was afraid to be alone. I asked if there was family he could call, and I offered to call them for him. He declined.

As we talked, he remained seated beside his wife. I stood near the bed, facing him, close enough that I could see her face. She had been unresponsive the entire visit. But as he spoke once more about his fear of being alone, something changed.

She opened her eyes.

She looked upward toward the ceiling. She took one single, deep breath. Then she closed her eyes again and never took another breath.

In that moment, she passed.

I have cared for many patients at the end of life, and I know there are clinical explanations for changes in breathing and awareness. But standing there, in that quiet room, I felt something else.

I believe she understood.

I believe she knew her husband didn’t want to be alone.