Everyone Needs a Mel

If you have ever had to experience hospice or long-term health care, you know the importance of the people that work in these fields and the profound difference they can make. When we think about this type of difficult situation, especially when the systems and processes can’t possibly account for the depth of human emotion experienced, it is often the people who make sure things and the people experiencing them are, somehow, still okay.

When my sister, Deb, was near the end of her battle with cancer, there were many people who helped ensure she was comfortable and had what she needed but there was one nurse, Mel, who seemed to move in a different way. She didn’t just respond to needs, she anticipated them. Having walked beside many people at the end of their lives, Mel seemed to understand what might be needed next, sometimes even before Deb or I knew ourselves.

That kind of awareness is so incredibly important when you are facing having the hardest conversations of your life. There are no rehearsals for saying goodbye; no script for knowing when to speak, when to sit quietly, or how to hold space for both love and loss at the exact same time, and yet the staff at the hospice somehow encouraged us to experience every moment of all the moments. We shared moments that were raw and unfiltered where we could name fears, share memories, and say the things that mattered yet were incredibly hard to say out loud. Those conversations, as painful as they were, were gifts. They allowed us to be present with Deb in a way that was honest, human, and real.

Mel, and the others around us, created space for those moments to happen. They showed us that compassion and competence are not separate things. They live side by side. They knew how to manage medications, track symptoms, and guide us through the process with clarity and steadiness. But at the same time, they could sit with us in silence, offer a reassuring presence, or gently guide us when we felt the weight of the impending loss. They were with us when our world felt like it was falling apart. Their quiet confidence somehow cradled us with a feeling of comfort and grace.

They also understood the importance of the small things. The rituals that, in moments like these, can become everything. Deb was encouraged to bring pieces of her life into that space. Whether it was surrounding her with familiar things from home, helping plan an early birthday celebration, or decorating her wheelchair with balloons so she could travel down the hall to participate in something that still felt remarkably like joy, these moments all mattered. They reminded us that even at the end of life, there is still room for celebration, for choice, for dignity.

Hospice gave Deb the ability to make decisions about how she wanted to spend her time. What music she wanted to hear. Who she wanted near her. What she wanted to eat. How she wanted her days to feel. Even something as simple as choosing the song you want to leave the building to becomes deeply meaningful. It is a final expression of self, a way to say, “This is who I am.”

There are things I wish I had done differently. I wish I had encouraged more writing, taken more pictures and videos, just more capturing of her thoughts in those final days. Something as simple as a journal could have held pieces of her voice that I now long to revisit. That absence is something I carry, but it also reminds me how important those small, intentional acts can be for both the person leaving and the ones who remain.

Mel was a calming presence when things were not easy, when they were heavy, uncertain, and overwhelming. She helped Deb, and all of us, navigate something that none of us fully knew how to understand. Deb used to say, “Everyone needs a Mel.” And she was right.

But the truth is, it wasn’t just one person. All the nurses and staff in hospice held themselves to a standard of care that blended humanity with skill in a way that is hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it. They didn’t just care for Deb, they carried us, too. And in doing so, they showed us something lasting: that even at the end of life, there can be intention, connection, and even moments of unexpected light.