Nina de Cocq, EOLD, RMT

04/20/2026

Yesterday is a place we return to when today feels unbearable.

It is where things still make sense. Where voices still sound familiar. Where routines exist and love feels intact. Yesterday holds what once was, and because of that, it often becomes a refuge when the present feels too sharp, too empty, too demanding.

In grief, yesterday has weight.

It carries phone calls that used to come easily. Ordinary moments that didn’t announce their importance while they were happening. Shared laughter. Predictable rhythms. The comfort of knowing someone existed just beyond reach. Yesterday is where they still feel real. And today, today is learning how to live with their absence.

We cannot go back to yesterday. That is the ache of it. But we look there anyway, not because we are stuck, but because yesterday holds proof. Proof that love existed. That life was shared. That something meaningful happened here.

Grief pulls us backward not to punish us, but to remind us.

It reminds us of who we were when love was present in a different form. It reminds us that the pain we feel now is directly tied to the depth of what we were given then. Grief is yesterday all over again, not as it was, but as it lives inside us now.

Yesterday is not only about loss. It is also about memory. And memory is a living thing. It shapes how we carry love forward when the person we love can no longer walk beside us. Yesterday becomes the place we visit when tomorrow feels too large to imagine.

There were so many yesterdays. So many moments that felt endless while they were happening. Only later do we understand how precious they were. Only later do we realize how much meaning lived in the ordinary.

Yesterday teaches us that nothing simple is ever insignificant.

In end-of-life care, yesterday often arrives quietly. It shows up in stories told again and again. In memories repeated, not because they are forgotten, but because they matter. Yesterday becomes a way of saying, this life was full, this love was real.

To sit with yesterday is not to move backward. It is to honor what shaped us. It is to allow ourselves to remember without rushing to resolve the pain that comes with it. Remembering is not a failure to move on. It is an act of love.

Yesterday holds unfinished sentences. Things that were not said. Moments that did not get their proper ending. And still, yesterday offers us something gentle: connection. Meaning. A place where love remains intact, even when presence does not.

Today asks us to keep going. Tomorrow asks us to imagine life unfolding without what we have lost. Yesterday asks nothing of us at all. It simply opens its door and lets us sit.

And sometimes, that is exactly what we need.

Yesterday reminds us that we lived fully enough to grieve deeply. That we loved in a way that left a mark. That our ache is not emptiness, but evidence.

We will never get yesterday back. But we carry it with us, woven into who we are becoming. It informs how we love, how we remember, how we show up for others in their own moments of loss.

Yesterday is not a place to stay forever. But it is a place worth visiting.

Because in yesterday, love is still whole.

And remembering is its own kind of grace.

xo
Gabby

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

04/16/2026

Over the years, I have been asked by families to “please don’t tell them they are dying.” I have sat at bedsides where family members pleaded with me not to say the word hospice or acknowledge death out loud. I always hold that request with respect. I know that the reasons are deeply personal, woven from culture, tradition, history, and love. I would never dismiss those choices. Still, what I have witnessed time and again is that the person who is dying almost always already knows. Their bodies tell them. Their hearts know. Their awareness deepens, even if no one around them dares to name it.

What stays with me are the moments lost when the truth is withheld. I have seen people leave without the chance to say goodbye, without being given the opening to speak words they have held close for years, words of forgiveness, apology, or gratitude. I believe those conversations, as painful as they might feel, are among the most sacred parts of dying. When we avoid them, we sometimes protect ourselves more than we protect the person we love.

This is not simple, and I don’t pretend there is only one way. There are situations where speaking directly isn’t possible or appropriate. But from what I have witnessed, I believe that naming what is real gives people the chance to meet the end of life on their own terms, with dignity, honesty, and peace. And to me, that is one of the greatest gifts we can offer.

In the end, this will always be your choice as a family. But if it were up to me, I would encourage honesty. Not harsh or unkind, but gentle and loving, meeting your person right where they are. In doing so, you not only support them in one of the most tender chapters of their life, but you also allow them the chance to feel truly seen, heard, and held as well as giving them the opportunity to say goodbye, which would be taken from them if the honest conversations were not had.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/give-them-the-chance-to-say-goodbye

04/15/2026

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1c1F3ACXaj/?mibextid=wwXIfr

Death asked me to join him for dinner
so I slipped into my favorite black dress
that I had been saving for a special occasion
and let him walk me to our candlelit tryst.
He ordered a ribeye, extra rare
I ordered two desserts and red wine
and then I sipped
and wondered
why he looked so familiar
and smelled like earth and memory.
He felt like a place both faraway
and deep within my body
A place that whispers to me
on the crisp autumn breeze
along the liminal edges of dusk and dawn
somewhere between dancing
and stillness.
He looked at me
with the endless night sky in his eyes
and asked
‘Did you live your life, my love?’
As I swirled my wine in its glass
I wondered If I understood the thread I wove into the greater fabric
If I loved in a way that was deep and freeing
If I let pain and grief carve me into something more grateful
If I made enough space to be in awe that flowers exist
and take the time to watch the honeybees
drink their sweet nectar
I wondered what the riddles of regret and longing
had taught me
and if I realized just how
beautiful and insignificant and monstrous and small we are
for the brief moment that we are here
before we all melt back down
into ancestors of the land.
Death watched me lick buttercream from my fingers
As he leaned in close and said
‘My darling, it’s time.’
So I slipped my hand into his
as he slowly walked me home.
I took a deep breath as he leaned in close
for the long kiss goodnight
and I felt a soft laugh leave my lips
as his mouth met mine
because I never could resist a man
with the lust for my soul in his eyes
and a kiss that makes my heart stop.

~ Gina Puorro: www.ginapuorro.com
Author's note: A playful love poem to Death, because I want to remember to relate to it as a part of life, and in ways that exist outside of violence and brutality.

🔆The Sisterhood of SHE

Image- Edijanto
https://www.lumarte.eu/en/elicia-edijanto

04/15/2026

04/12/2026

One of the places I meet the most resistance at the end of life is around the use of medications to relieve symptoms such as pain, agitation, or delirium. The medications I am referring to, are often morphine, lorazepam, or haloperidol, which are commonly included in the comfort or relief kit provided when someone begins hospice care. What families struggle with most is the fear that these medications may cause their person to sleep more, or become deeply sedated, and in doing so, take away the ability to have conversation.

I understand that fear. Communication at the end of life is sacred. People hold tightly to the hope of one more chance to hear their voice. I have sat at the bedside of someone I love, longing for one more word, knowing it wasn’t going to come. I struggle with this too. Wanting to keep someone as awake and cognitively present as possible comes from love.

What I have learned, though, is that when someone is dying and suffering, it can keep them from leaning into the dying process with the peace they deserve. Medications are not something I push or force. I don’t believe in taking choice away, and I never want families to carry regret or guilt into their grief. But I do believe deeply in education and support, and in helping families make peace with the fact that sometimes medication is exactly what allows suffering to soften.

What I often say in these moments is this: they might not be able to respond to you, but they can hear you. You may have already heard their last words, but they can still hear yours. I believe this with every ounce of my being. I witnessed it with my own brother who was non-responsive in the ICU. After sitting at his bedside for many days, saying all the things I had left unsaid over the years, apologizing again and again, he woke the day before he died and his last words to me were, “I’m sorry too.” He heard me.

Medications at the end of life are not what end someone’s life, their illness and the disease process do that. These medications simply allow them to die with more peace, more ease, and less suffering, and I truly believe that is something every human being deserves.

I am not here to convince you, I am here to sit with you. I want you to feel heard, and I want you to be able to make peace with a decision I know can feel heavy and complicated. I don’t want you to carry something forward that turns into an ache, wondering if you did the right thing, or if you waited too long.

My hope is to educate and support you in a way that allows you to make peace with this choice, to give medication, if it’s needed, without hesitation, and to trust that your presence matters, that your words are heard, that they are felt, and that they wrap gently around the person you love, offering comfort, safety, and permission to let go.

Be present. Speak your heart.
Let your love hold them, and let them go.
Trust that your care, your words, your presence, wraps them in the gentlest comfort. And know that in this act of love, you have done exactly what was needed.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/medications-at-the-end-of-life-a-gentle-conversation

04/11/2026

03/16/2026

One of the questions I am asked more than almost any other is this: “Why do we stop food and water at the end of life?”

It is a question filled with tenderness, and often, with fear. Families struggle. Clinicians and caregivers struggle. Anyone who has ever cared for someone who is dying knows how deep the instinct is to nurture, to comfort, to give. We equate food and water with love, with survival, with doing right by someone we care about.

And so, when we are asked to stop, or when a patient begins refusing food and water, it can feel like we are participating in something harmful… or abandoning something essential. Some worry they are contributing to suffering or hastening death. Others feel a conflict with their faith, their values, or the core human urge to sustain life. All of these feelings are valid. All of them deserve to be seen.

But there is another truth, one rooted in the wisdom of the body itself. At the end of life, the body does not want food and water. As the systems begin to shut down, appetite and thirst naturally fade. The digestive system slows. The cues in the brain that tell us “I’m hungry” or “I’m thirsty,” grow quiet. The body needs less energy, less input. It begins turning inward, conserving what little is left for the final work of letting go.

When we try to give food or fluids during this time, no matter how well-intentioned, we create discomfort. The body can no longer process what we are offering. Liquids can pool in the hands, feet, and limbs. Food can sit in the mouth or throat without the strength to swallow. These are not signs of neglect. They are signs of a body transitioning, doing exactly what it is designed to do at the end of life.

This is why stopping food and water is not an act of harm. It is an act of honoring the body’s own wisdom.
It is allowing the natural process to unfold without introducing distress.
It is trusting that they are not dying because we are withholding anything, they are dying because the illness has reached its end. And when we stop giving food and fluid at this stage, we are not causing death, we are helping create the conditions for it to be more peaceful, gentler, and filled with far more grace.

The body will actually let go with a little more peace and grace when food and water is not given at the end of life. The body responds well to this. It prefers this. And when we honor the body in this way we can remove or avoid physical suffering which is inevitable when we push or force food and water.

There are ways to offer care, comfort, and presence:

• Offer, don’t force. If someone shows interest, small sips or favorite tastes like ice cream, Jell-O, or a spoonful of something familiar can be soothing. But refusal is communication, and it must be respected.
• Provide mouth care. Moist lips, a clean mouth, and gentle swabs can bring comfort without asking the body to process what it cannot.
• Watch for cues. Holding food in the cheeks, coughing, spitting out food, or drooling are signs the body is not tolerating intake.
• Honor their choices. If they have an Advance Care Directive, their decision about artificial hydration or nutrition must guide us.
• Above all, prioritize comfort. Hospice and end-of-life teams are here to help families and caregivers understand these changes, to hold space for the grief they bring, and to create care plans centered entirely on comfort and dignity.

Stopping food and water at the end of life is one of the hardest things we ask of families and care teams. It challenges our instincts. It touches our fears. It asks us to redefine what care looks like.

But the truth is simple and profound:
Their body prefers it this way.
We are not hurting them. We are easing their way.
We are meeting them with compassion, not deprivation.

This work is tender. It asks so much of our hearts. But when we allow the body to guide us, when we stop forcing what it can no longer use, we give our patients what they deserve: a death held with gentleness, respect, and deep humanity.

And that is the essence of the care we all strive to provide for the people in our care, and for the people we love.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/a-gentle-truth-about-food-water-and-the-end-of-life