A Day Without Loss

This morning when I pulled up to the hospice there where more cars than usual parked in front and on the side streets, I paused for a moment and then kept driving. I decided since it was still early that I would stop at the corner store to pick up a pack of cigarettes for the house and candy for the residents. I called a close friend that knew exactly what I meant when I said “The house is surrounded by cars.”

I was stalling.

Usually lots of cars parked in and around the hospice means that a resident has died or is dying and family and friends have flocked to spend their final moments, to cry, to grieve, so say goodbye.

I picked out the usual assortment of candy at the store for the usual residents and wondered if some of the candy I was buying was for a resident that was no longer with us. As I pulled up to the hospice again and parked in one of the few available spots I braced myself for whatever might come as I walked through the front door.

The loss of a resident is always difficult regardless of their length of stay. Everyone in the house is affected, the other residents, silent and scared as they face their own mortality. The staff and volunteers, sad at the loss of someone they had taken care of if only for a few moments in a day filled with many moments. Of course there are some residents that touch us in different ways. I know I have formed bonds and crossed lines that will test my strength and hopefully I’ll find a soft place to land when I come spiraling down in the aftermath of loss and loss and loss and loss and loss.

But today, as I braced myself for the worst, I walked into the hospice and saw that the names on the charts had remained the same. The influx of cars was due to visitors touring the hospice rather than loss or impending loss.

Today, I am thankful for a day without loss.