“They tell you that as you get older, the circle of life begins to close. You expect to say a slow, quiet goodbye to the generation before you. But no one warns you about the stolen decade. No one tells you what it feels like to trade ten years of your own life for the fluorescent lights of a hospital corridor and the rhythmic, hollow beep of a heart monitor.
I am a person of deep empathy. I believe with my whole heart in the dignity of the dying and the comfort of the sick. But I am also just a human being. Why does it feel like the universe has decided my shoulders are the only ones strong enough to carry the grief of an entire lineage? I am not just a witness to death; I have become the custodian of it.
I have watched them leave, one by one. I have seen the light go out in eyes I’ve known since childhood, often in ways so tragic and horrific they leave scars no one else can see. And the cruelty of it is that I don’t even have the luxury of sitting with my own mourning. I am forced to grieve the dead while I am still physically holding the hands of those who are fading.
I find myself looking at the horizon, wondering: When is it my turn to breathe? When do I get to wake up and belong only to myself, rather than being tethered to a diagnosis or a palliative care plan?
I am not angry—I am simply hollow. I hate the suffering. I hate that I have become an expert in a language I never wanted to speak. I am unregulated and overwhelmed today because I am tired of being the only bridge between the living and the lost. I just want to be free.”
What I’m experiencing isn’t just “stress”; it is compassion fatigue and anticipatory grief rolled into one. I am allowed to feel “unregulated.” When I spend all my time regulating the comfort of others, my own soul eventually runs out of steady ground. 💔
Reba Nietert 