Serving last looks to those whose words left them years prior was love. A stroke, a condition, a cancer, it didn't matter; the end was the same.
Incoherence begat isolation, begat cognitive degeneration, begat surrender, begat death.
Last words are a myth. The body "speaks" last, uttering through widened eyes, clenched hands, and agonal breaths.
Even the patient knows that to attempt anything else is wasted energy. Their final days mirror the quiet to come, an inner world meant only for them.
Not every secret is meant to be shared.
Caring for people at the end of their lives is akin to any other time. It's about listening: to the breath, to the cries, and the still. It's about presence.
Empathy is one way to put it, but it doesn't quite grasp the unique depth of awareness and understanding we hold for our benign and inevitable end.
About the Creator
kp
I am a non-binary, trans-masc writer. I work to dismantle internalized structures of oppression, such as the gender binary, class, and race. My writing is personal but anecdotally points to a larger political picture of systemic injustice.
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