I clearly remember the morning my young partner was moved to hospice care. After sending the kids off to school, I stepped into the house, feeling my hands tremble and my heart race with anxiety. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, and I felt utterly exhausted—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
All I needed was ten minutes. Just ten minutes to acknowledge my fear, sadness, and weariness. Ten minutes to allow myself to break down because I knew I wouldn’t have another moment like that. My partner and our children would rely on me to be their rock in the storm that was about to engulf our family.
I lay down in a patch of sunlight on the playroom floor, absorbing the weight of the word “hospice.” I paused my relentless routine after twenty months of battling an unyielding illness, allowing tears to flow into my hair. In those ten minutes, I reflected on that haunting spinal MRI, a memory that still lingers in the space between wakefulness and sleep. I allowed myself to unravel.
I thought I had time to fall apart. But as I gathered myself up, I noticed the clock. My partner’s transfer from the hospital was scheduled for 10 a.m. If I didn’t leave right away, there was a real chance I’d miss him, that we might pass each other on the road, and I wouldn’t be there for his arrival at hospice. For nearly two years, I had been his caretaker, his constant amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces, and I didn’t want to fail him at this final moment.
So, I made a choice. I decided against heading to the hospital and instead packed blankets, pillows, and family photos to set up his room in hospice. I wanted to create a space that felt like home, filled with love.
I should have known that 10 a.m. in a hospital doesn’t mean the same as 10 a.m. anywhere else. Hospital schedules are notoriously unpredictable; I had learned that lesson too many times during the past months. Yet, I held onto the belief that this transfer would stick to the timeline, especially since they were short on beds.
I waited for hours, torn between the desire to be with him and the fear that leaving would mean missing his arrival. For the first time in a long while, I wished I could be in two places at once.
When he finally arrived, much later than expected, he was either asleep, sedated, or in a coma—I still can’t say for certain. He didn’t wake while being moved from the stretcher to the bed. He didn’t see the kids’ drawings hanging on the walls or the little touches of home I hoped would bring him comfort. He didn’t wake as the day turned into night, and night into morning, while friends and family kept vigil at his side for the next nine days. The very room I had prepared for him, which I had hoped would radiate love, turned out to be a space where he could not respond.
Those ten minutes I took for myself felt like a betrayal. I fell apart while he was slipping away, and in that moment, he needed my strength. I regret those ten minutes deeply, and I am still working to forgive myself for choosing to pause.
Over time, I’ve tried to rationalize my actions, reminding myself that I couldn’t have foreseen that his last morning would also be his last awake moment. Just a week earlier, he had successfully undergone brain surgery; just the day before, doctors told me he had weeks to live, not days. He had even shared a meal with me, seeming engaged with life. I’ve largely found peace with my decision, realizing it’s human to need time to recharge.
Yet, even in forgiveness, I often wish I had chosen differently. I wish I had opted to be with him rather than step away, to hold onto my strength rather than let it slip away. I also recognize that my choice allowed me to prepare a loving environment, not just for him but for our children, who needed a stable presence as their lives unraveled.
Regret can be a dangerous emotion, capable of poisoning an entire existence if allowed to fester. But it doesn’t define my narrative. It exists, yes, but it’s just a small piece of a much larger story filled with love and resilience.
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- How to cope with caregiving in hospice
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Summary:
The narrative reveals the poignant struggle of a caregiver facing the impending loss of a partner to a terminal illness. Taking a brief moment for self-care led to a profound sense of regret when the caregiver realized they missed crucial moments, highlighting the balance between personal needs and the responsibilities of caregiving. Ultimately, the author learns to navigate feelings of regret while also recognizing the necessity of self-compassion in the face of overwhelming circumstances.
Keyphrase: Taking time for oneself during caregiving
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