Saving Grace Thanadoula

11/24/2025

We talk about closure as though it is a door that shuts cleanly, firm, final, absolute. We say we have “put closure on the past,” as if healing is as simple as turning a key. Even the definition suggests an ending: an act or process of closing something. But when it comes to death, to grief, to the tender work of end-of-life care, closure becomes something far more complicated. How do you close a door on someone you love? How do you end something that continues to live inside you?

At the end of life, closure is often described as the process of finding peace and acceptance, for both the dying person and the people who love them. But true closure is not an erasing of what has happened; it is not the final page of a book. Closure is not forgetting. It is not “moving on.” It is not a sudden stillness where pain once lived.

Closure, in this sacred space, is the gentle act of making peace with reality.

For the person who is dying, closure may look like unfinished things finally tended to: saying goodbye, expressing love, asking for forgiveness, or offering it. It can mean putting affairs in order, arranging care for a partner or a pet, or leaving behind words that were never spoken. It may mean accepting that life is coming to its natural end, and seeking comfort in knowing their people, and their world, will continue on. Closure for the dying is not about shutting a life down; it is about setting it gently into place.

For the people who remain at the bedside, closure may look like giving themselves permission to say goodbye. Saying I love you one last time. Saying the thing they have needed to say for years. Or holding a hand quietly, knowing no words are necessary. Closure, for them, is often about softening guilt, releasing regret, and recognizing that they have done what they could with the time they were given.

Closure does not erase grief. It does not end longing. It does not silence the ache of missing someone. Closure simply makes room for grief to exist without being tangled in anger, shame, or unfinished business. It is peace in the midst of loss, not the absence of it.

Maybe we need to rethink closure altogether. Maybe it is not a slamming door at all. Maybe closure is a door that eases itself toward the frame but never fully latches. A door that can be pushed open whenever a memory arises, when love calls, or when grief asks to be felt again. Because grief is not linear, and love does not end. We need that door open sometimes.

Closure, in the world of end-of-life care, is not a final act. It is a quiet acceptance. A softening. A settling of the heart. It is the courage to face the truth of what has happened while allowing yourself to keep loving, to keep remembering, to keep walking through that half-open door whenever you need to.

Closure is not an ending.
Closure is peace, the kind that lets us carry both love and loss at the same time.

At least that is how I look at it...
xo
Gabby
www.thehospiceheart.net

11/22/2025

11/15/2025

If you’re looking for new ways to honour a loved one that is as stunning as it is sentimental, look no farther 🩶

Honour Your Connection

11/13/2025

🎄Coping with the Holidays – Grief Support Group 🎄

The holiday season can be especially difficult for those who are grieving. At Hospice North Hastings, we understand that joy and loss often coexist during this time of year.

Join us for a supportive and compassionate group session where you can share your experiences, connect with others who understand, and explore ways to manage grief throughout the holidays. Together, we’ll discuss alternative traditions and gentle ways to find meaning in the season.

📅 Thursday, November 27th, 2025
🕑 2:00 PM – 3:30 PM
📍 Community Futures (26 Chemaushgon Rd)

Facilitated by:
Lise Preston, MSW, RSW
Grief and Bereavement Coordinator
📞 613-332-1100

Everyone is welcome. 💚
Take this opportunity to find comfort, connection, and hope as we move through the holiday season together.

11/12/2025

Handcrafted cremation jewellery made with care and respect.

10/20/2025

We never know whether or not we will be the last person someone talks to before they die, or that our eyes will be the last they look into. That in itself is important for us and for them, something we should be mindful and respectful of. And when that last breath is taken and you are there… don’t rush it. Sit with it for a moment. Take a pause and breathe and honor the significance of it all.

Whether you are at their bedside personally or professionally, there is a reason you were there, I don’t think it’s an accident, I think it’s meant to be. Perhaps you were somehow chosen because you could honor the preciousness of that time, of their life, and their death, in the beautiful way it deserves.

xo
Gabby
www.thehospiceheart.net

10/17/2025

Every loss hits different, and every person grieves differently. The “second wave” can last much longer than you expected and that’s also okay.

Take the time to grieve.

What a love, to cause such a loss 💔

Just please keep in mind, there is help out there….know when to reach out 💜💚💜

The Second Wave

It’s the one you never see coming.
The one that shows up years later,
long after people stop checking in.

You think you’ve done the work.
You’ve cried, survived, rebuilt.
You’ve convinced yourself you’re finding your footing again.
Then one random day, grief kicks the door back open.

It hits like it did in the beginning—
sharp, cruel, and familiar.
You don’t ease into it. You drown in it.
That same ache in your chest, that same lump in your throat.
You remember the exact sound of that day,
the way the air felt when your world split.
It all floods back like no time has passed at all.

And the people around you—they don’t see it.
They think you’ve moved on.
They think time has done its job.
But time doesn’t heal this kind of wound.
It just teaches you how to look functional while you bleed.

The second wave makes you realize how deep it still runs.
How love this real doesn’t expire just because life keeps going.
It reminds you that no matter how strong you’ve been,
grief still knows your name.

And when it hits, all you can do is stop fighting it.
Let it come.
Let it wreck you for a while.
Because it’s proof they still exist somewhere inside you.

You’ll stand up again—
you always do—
but for a moment,
you’re back there.
And that’s what the second wave really is—
not starting over,
just remembering how much it still hurts to love someone who’s gone.

10/16/2025

Death looks different to each of us. We all experience it in our own way, whether we are facing it personally, witnessing it unfold in someone we love, or simply bearing witness as a professional death worker. Watching decline is one of the hardest things we do as humans. It quietly reminds us of our own mortality. We know where it is leading. We prepare ourselves the best that we can, but when it finally happens, there is still that moment of shock, a deep, indescribable stillness that words can’t quite reach.

The significance of death, I have come to believe, is deeply intertwined with the life we have lived. For those who have lived fully, who have loved deeply, found meaning, and made peace, death can feel almost like a completion, a reward for a life well-lived. But for those whose lives have been marked by struggle, pain, or unfulfilled dreams, death carries a different weight. It can bring with it regret, disappointment, or even anger at what was never realized.

As a hospice nurse and an end-of-life doula, I have witnessed both, the quiet acceptance of a well-lived life and the ache of one that feels unfinished. And perhaps that is one of death’s greatest lessons: it asks us to reflect, to live while we can, to fill the time we have with presence and gratitude. Because when the end comes, and it always does, death has a way of showing us not just what has ended, but what we may have missed out on.

And maybe that’s the most tender truth of all: we cannot tell another person how to feel about death. Not the dying, not the grieving, not anyone. Each of us meets death through our own lens, shaped by the life we have lived and the love we have known. There is no single way to see it, and perhaps that is what makes it so profoundly human, and, in its own way, so incredibly beautiful.

If we could see death for what it is; unpredictable, final, and deeply personal, we might live with more kindness, more gratitude, and more understanding that no two journeys through dying or grief are ever the same. And perhaps then, we would stop trying to fix what cannot be fixed, and instead simply stand beside one another, with patience, with love, and with the quiet knowing that being present is sometimes the greatest gift we can give... to ourselves, and to one another.

Death is the end of life, but it is also the mirror that shows us what it means to live.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/death

10/15/2025

*Language warning*

This is such an incredible, real and powerful story about the death process.

Death is a journey, make sure you’re in the drivers seat 💚💜💚