Nina de Cocq, EOLD, RMT

02/25/2026

The other day I got into my car at the post office and noticed a bee clinging to my driver’s side window. I assumed it would lift off once I started driving. It didn’t. I remember thinking that was strange, surely the wind would carry it away. But I drove to the grocery store, and it was still there. I went inside, came back out, and it hadn’t moved. I drove to another stop. Still there.

At first, I couldn’t understand it, why wasn’t it flying away? The wind pressed hard against the glass. The air was cold. The world rushed by, and that tiny little bee remained fixed in place. I kept waiting for it to release itself and disappear into the sky, but it didn’t. And somewhere between one stop and the next, it began to occur to me that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t simple stubbornness, it felt like survival.

So, I began speaking to it. “It’s okay. We are almost there. Just hold on a little longer. I will get you somewhere safe.” I found myself driving with a little more ease, as though a smoother ride might matter. I worried about what would happen if the wind finally tore it loose, if it struck a car or fell beneath a tire. That ending felt harsh, I didn’t want that for the bee. I wanted stillness, shelter, a place where whatever needed to happen could happen gently, with peace.

When I finally reached my house, it was still there. Only when I tried to slide a piece of paper beneath it did I realize one tiny leg had been stuck to the glass the entire time. I carefully separtated it from the window, and I placed it beneath a leaf in my flower bed, creating a small, safe sanctuary, and stepped back. Its wings moved faintly. I didn’t know if it was in pain. I didn’t know what a bee in pain looked like. I only knew it was still alive, barely, and that it was no longer alone on a moving car, and it was safe. This mattered to me.

I knew in my heart that I was not just looking at a bee, I was witnessing a life as it was ending.

Later, it died, and as I buried it in the flower bed, I realized why the moment had felt so personal. For a brief stretch of time, it wasn’t just a bee, it was a life slowly changing, a life holding on. It was a life becoming more fragile, more dependent on circumstance, more reliant on whatever steadiness surrounded it. It held on until it reached a place that felt safe enough to let go.

In the work of caring for those who are declining, I have witnessed that same quiet rhythm, the holding on, the gradual surrender, and the resilience that exists beside exhaustion. As caregivers, we do not control the outcome, we cannot stop the wind, but we can offer presence. We can soften the landing. We can create a space where letting go does not feel abrupt, or violent, it should feel held.

Every ending of a life deserves this kind of care... even the life of a bee.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/it-wasn-t-just-a-bee

02/24/2026

I was asked recently, “What is the difference between a natural death and a death with Medical Aid in Dying?”

Having been present for nearly three hundred people who have chosen this option, and more than two thousand last breaths altogether, I have witnessed many ways of dying. What I have come to understand is that the difference is not always in the death itself, but in how the person who is dying meets it.

A natural death, for lack of a better word, is what most of us are familiar with. A diagnosis is given, or age takes its toll, and the body begins to decline. There are symptoms. There is caregiving. There is the long stretch of watching and waiting. And when the last breath comes, it is a loss, and it is heavy.

A death with Medical Aid in Dying unfolds along that similar path. The diagnosis has already been spoken. The body is already changing. Treatments have been tried. This person is dying, and the reality of limited time has already settled into the room. The difference is not whether or not someone is dying, they are dying. The difference is that with Medical Aid in Dying, they are given a choice within that reality.

I advocate for this option because I have witnessed the waiting. I have sat beside people whose bodies were not going to recover, whose strength was fading, whose suffering, physical, emotional, or quiet and internal, continued long after acceptance had arrived.

We always want more time, of course we do. Loving someone means wanting one more conversation, one more hug, one more memory to make, and one more day. But when someone you love is already dying and suffering in ways you cannot fix, love can also mean not holding them back from peace.

Medical Aid in Dying does not change the outcome. It does not create death, death is already happening. It offers autonomy at a time when so much has already been taken from this person. It allows someone to say, “I am ready now,” and to be met with respect rather than resistance.

Death is hard. Watching someone you love die is hard. But watching someone suffer while they wait can be harder still. No one should have to suffer when they are dying. We treat our animals more humanely than our humans, and I struggle with this.

If this choice matters to the person in the bed, it should matter to us. My hope is always that they are offered dignity, autonomy, and the freedom to make their final decision without it being overshadowed by our own fear or judgment.

It is still goodbye. It is still death. It is still love. And it is still hard. But sometimes, it can also be mercy.

xo
Gabby
www.thehospiceheart.net

02/17/2026

02/10/2026

02/10/2026

When her cancer came back, she was really clear about what she wanted this time. No hospital room. No machines. No rotating strangers. She wanted to be at home. In her own bed. Window open. Wind in the trees. Her people nearby.

As things changed, her family stayed close. Someone was always sitting with her taking turns reading, brushing her hair, holding her hand when talking felt like too much. When she died, it wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. One breath… then stillness. The whole room just felt calm.

Later, her daughter warmed water and brought washcloths. The family washed her together. Slow. Careful. Tender. They dressed her in her favorite blue silk pajamas. Exactly how she wanted it. No chemicals. No rush. No strangers taking over.

People came by all day. Food in their hands. Stories. Tears. Some laughter, too. They sat with her, touched her hand, said what they needed to say.

When it was time, they laid out her shroud handmade by Sanctum Shrouds and gathered around her again. Everyone placed a rose. One by one. The whole room smelled like a garden.

The next morning, they carried her out to the family van. No hearse. No casket showroom moment. Just sunlight, trees, bees buzzing somewhere nearby.
At the green burial cemetery, she was laid into the forest wrapped in her shroud, roses still around her. Moss. Soil. Roots. Back to the place she loved.

Her husband said something I’ll never forget while we placed the last rose on the grave: “No fuss. Just the forest telling her story.”

02/07/2026

02/05/2026

✨
💯
🙌
✨

02/05/2026

I love Jann Arden’s words:

02/02/2026

01/22/2026

01/19/2026

The morning after someone dies in your home.

The neighbor doesn’t know yet.

The light still comes through the window the same way it always has.

The dust floats. Birds sing their thing. Coffee brews out of habit.

But everything is different.

This is the quietest morning you’ll ever experience because it's not quite peaceful, just hushed.

It feels like the world lowered its voice out of respect.

You’re aware of every sound, every creak, every breath you take without them.

There’s often guilt here.

For sleeping.

For laughing at a memory.

For noticing how beautiful the light is when someone you love is gone.

If this was your morning, you didn’t do it wrong.

This liminal space between presence and absence is part of grief.

It’s sacred, even when it feels unbearable.

Nothing needs to be rushed today.

You’re allowed to stand at the window a little longer.

11/03/2025