Linda and I maintained what I would classify as a Christmas Card correspondence following her retirement 10 years ago. We would exchange cards and updates on our lives. So I was surprised when I received a text from her in June sharing that she was in “my hospital,” that she thought she might be making some hard decisions in the days ahead and asking if I could come see her. She included her hospital room number in the text. My heart sank when the numbers correlated with the oncology ward.

Linda had a rapid decline in her health and she was ultimately diagnosed with metastatic cancer of unknown primary, though likely believed to be of GI origin. Her primary care provider had recently retired and she requested help in identifying a new PCP. I was grateful to have a job and something I could do to help her situation. Unfortunately Linda never made it to chemo as serial setbacks in her health kept her from being strong enough to receive cancer directed treatment.

She had multiple hospital admissions following the initial hospitalization in June. Often she was so ill that she could not consistently respond to my messages. However she managed to let me know each time she was admitted. I would sit with her in her hospital room at the end of my day. We would talk of our time together as MICU nurses at the VA hospital. We would update each other on our lives and talk about how friends and colleagues we had worked with were doing. Have you heard from so and so . . . Did you hear about so and so . . . She always asked after my family.  At times we would talk about her health and I would ask what worried her. Linda had a strong faith and was hoping for a miracle. She also was an RN who had a clinical context and knew that she was likely going to die. While she did not fear death, she had things she needed to take care of before she died.

I knew things were serious, when my team, the palliative care team, was consulted on her care. I stayed on the sidelines and firmly remained rooted in the role of friend. She gave permission for me to have updates on her status and my name and phone number were added to the White Board in her hospital room.

During her final hospital admission, I took a week off of work to care for my mom, who was recovering from hip replacement surgery. When I returned to work and checked on Linda, I was heartbroken to see how weak she was. Despite her continuous nausea, dyspnea and tremulousness, the first thing she asked me was, “How is your mom doing?” Even at her worst, she was still the same compassionate thoughtful woman she had always been. I didn’t know what I should do for her or how I could help her. And really was there anything I could do? So I did what I knew how to do, I nursed my friend. I washed her face and hands, applied lotion to her body, provided oral care and put ChapStick on her lips. I sat and held her hand and kissed her forehead before I left for the day.

Linda continued to deteriorate and she was eventually intubated. Initially, I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t change her CODE status to DNR. Hadn’t we taken care of enough intubated patients over the years? Didn’t she know how this was going to end? But then I realized that was my story and not hers. When I slowed down, I realized that Linda continued to be the same steadfast, faithful, constant and private woman who worked along side me in the ICU for 15 years. In her health and illness she was still the same as she had always been.

She eventually told her husband she did not want to continue on the ventilator. She was compassionately extubated and died peacefully.

Though I do this work everyday, it’s different when it’s your people. Though Linda and I had not stayed in close communication in the years following her retirement I was deeply impacted by her illness and her death. There are ties that bind us together as humans. Linda and I shared an identity as VA nurses. We cared for each other while caring for others. I learned that these bonds hold over the years, even if we may drift apart. I’m grateful we had time together as her life ended. I’m grateful that the bond encircling us pulled us together once again.