Nina de Cocq, EOLD, RMT

08/22/2026

I am often asked why someone is taking so long to die, especially when they have gone days without food or water, they are no longer responsive, and with or without medications, they have settled into their dying process while everyone waits. Sometimes impatiently.

I will say to them, “the body knows what to do, and we need to trust that.” I believe this, and it can usually comfort those at the bedside who are waiting day after day, exhausted, sometimes frustrated, and in many ways have put their grief on hold because it has become too hard to sit with those emotions day after day. They continue waiting, trusting the process, knowing that their person will eventually let go and find peace.

But sometimes they cannot accept this answer and they struggle with the “why?” This is when I share my thoughts, which goes to a deeper, more emotional, or spiritual place. You see, I have a theory that when someone is dying, there is a certain sense of awareness they still have, and before they can truly let go, they need to make peace with their past, perhaps let go of some guilt or regret, but also, I think they need to say goodbye to the life they had. This takes time, especially if they are in their eighties or nineties, that is a lot of life to say goodbye too.

But what about the younger ones, those who die way too soon, who don’t have a long life to say goodbye too, what are they holding on for? Why are they taking so long? This one is harder to answer, and sadly, I have witnessed this many times. Perhaps they are trying to make peace with having less time, finding gratitude for the life they did have, while also savoring life just a little bit longer, even if not fully present for it.

I was speaking to a man whose mother held on for many days. Ten days prior to her death, I told him she could let go in a matter of hours or days, neither could be predicted, but I honestly thought it would be hours. I spoke with him every single day, and despite the length of time this was taking, he welcomed my thoughts, and embraced the idea that she needed time to reflect. We decided that this waiting period was a soul review, an opportunity to revisit the past, finding purpose in the life she lived, the choices she made, and the people she loves.

I imagine them doing an anointing of sorts for their body, thanking it for everything it did for them…
Their brain for their thoughts, creativity, decisions.
Their eyes for all they have seen.
Their mouth for the words they have expressed.
Their heart for the love they have given, and the love they have received.
Their arms for the hugs they have welcomed and those that they extended.
Their hands for the work they have done, and the comfort they have provided.
Their legs and their feet for holding them up and supporting them.

And once they have finished their soul review, extending gratitude for a life they were gifted, and making peace with their last goodbye, they can finally let go.

The truth is though, and I continue to stand by this as well, the body does know what to do. We can intervene with medications to reduce symptoms and suffering, and we can provide verbal and tactile stimuli for comfort, support, and a feeling of safety, but at the end of the day, the timing of when the body finally let’s go, is not about us. And that is what we must find a way to make peace with.

xo
Gabby

08/19/2026

💗

Some of you may already know that I am a facilitator with the Humane Prison Hospice Project. I have been doing this work since 2023. Each time I am invited into a prison, my passion for this work evolves in ways I never quite expect.

I recently spent time with incarcerated men who are providing end-of-life care to others behind bars. Last week, we talked about vigiling, what it means to sit at the bedside of someone who is dying, and the quiet power of presence. We talked about meeting people where they are, without needing to fix anything. They reminded me that presence itself is one of the most unselfish gifts we can offer another human being.

During my last visit the conversation centered around grief.

Not just grief after death, but grief in all the ways it exists throughout a life. The loss of relationships. The loss of opportunities. The loss of the person you once were. The grief of choices made, paths not taken, and futures that will never unfold the way you imagined.

Some spoke about losing loved ones they could not say goodbye to. Others spoke about having the chance to say goodbye even if they could not attend a funeral. We talked about witnessing dying men reconnect with family after years of silence, and sometimes witnessing families still carrying anger, hurt, and regret.

What struck me most was this: grief is rarely about one thing. It is layered into our disappointments, our trauma, our regrets, our love, our humanity, and even our hope. It becomes part of the story of who we were, who we are, and who we still want to become.

I left feeling deeply humbled and incredibly grateful. This work fills my heart with purpose, but it also gently asks me to look at my own life with more honesty and compassion.

I think all of us are searching for ways to matter, ways to contribute, and ways to leave people feeling seen, valued, or less alone.

And maybe sometimes it starts simply with being willing to sit beside another human being and truly see them.

Compassion does not ask who deserves it, it simply rises from the heart of one human being and reaches toward another. And sometimes, in the most unexpected places, we witness it in its purest form.

xo
Gabby

To learn more about the Humane Prison Hospice Project click this link: https://humaneprisonhospiceproject.org/

08/15/2026

Meet Jenny. 👋 She’s receiving end of life care in our West Midlands Hospice. Here's what Jenny wants you to know about dying – from someone who is. 💛

1. I can make the choices I want to make and I’m supported to make those choices. The care I’ve had here means I feel well enough to say this is what I want and I'm being listened to, I cannot ask for anything better than that. I’ve had a good life and Marie Curie is enabling me to have a good death because I’m being supported. That empowers me so much.

2. Say I love you. I text people to say I love them every morning so they know I'm still alive and I've made it to another day. Hopefully at some point those messages will be a comfort for them when they need it and I hope it’ll help them remember me with a smile.

3. In life and death, we want to be treated as ourselves. The Marie Curie team treat me as me. They've given me my dignity. We have a laugh and a joke because that's just me. I swear a lot and I want to make people smile because, you know, I don't want people to be sad. That's not me. They've read my character very well and they are reflecting it back at me with their care and humour and that's just flipping wonderful. Because in life and death, we want to be treated as ourselves, not as a patient, not as a number.

4. In hospital you might feel helpless because you're not well enough to take charge of your care. It was a very traumatic time for my family, I was stuck there and no-one seemed interested. I’m lucky because I had my family fighting to get me here where we’re now all being taken care of – there’s nothing to be scared about dying if you’re well supported.

5. Palliative care needs to be properly funded so everyone can get the care and support they need. I don't know the ins and outs of government funding, but I know it's not right and it's not fair that what you get depends on where you live. My dream would be that everyone could have an experience like mine. I've always said how grateful I am to be supported on this last journey and I treat each new day as a gift.

6. I’m not scared of dying. Of course you have to allow yourself time to process it, it’s a lot to take in and you have to be kind to yourself. Everyone is different and everyone’s journey is different, but there's only so many things you can change in life, isn't there? Some you can, a lot of things you can't, so now I am in the place of acceptance. It’s all about the love. You come in with love. You want to go out with love. I think of death as redistributing energy and I hope my positive energy stays with the people around me for a long, long time.

08/12/2026

This is it.

08/11/2026

08/09/2026

"Teresa Dellar spends her days inside Lakeshore General Hospital, working as an oncology social worker in Montreal's West Island.

She sits with families as doctors deliver the news no one wants to hear.

She watches something else, too, something that never stops bothering her.

In the final weeks of life, patients get moved. Not home. Not somewhere familiar.

They get sent downtown, to hospital wards two bus transfers away from everyone they love, to die among strangers in a building that was never built for dying.

Dellar earned her Bachelor's in Social Work from McGill in 1983. She went back for her Master's in 1990.

By the late 1990s she has spent close to 15 years watching this exact failure repeat itself, family after family, and she decides she is done just watching it.

1998. Dellar teams up with Russell Williams, then a member of Quebec's National Assembly for the Kirkland area.

Together they set out to build something that does not exist yet on the island of Montreal: a home built only for dying well.

Not a hospital wing. Not a hallway with a curtain pulled around a bed. An actual residence, with private rooms, where a person's last address is somewhere that looks and feels like home.

The idea is simple. The ex*****on is not.

There is no building. There is no funding. There is only a plan, a handful of believers, and years of fundraising ahead of them before a single patient can walk through the door.

Here's what makes it worse: while Dellar spends years chasing donations and government meetings, the patients she is trying to help keep dying the old way. Every season of fundraising is a season of families still getting the transfer notice, still packing a dying parent into an ambulance headed downtown.

She keeps going anyway.

October 2002. Four years after the idea started, the West Island Palliative Care Residence opens its doors in Kirkland, Quebec. Nine private beds. The first freestanding facility of its kind on the island of Montreal.

Dellar becomes Executive Director in 2001, a year before the doors even open, and stays in that role for the rest of her life.

She tells a visitor exactly what she means the Residence to be. You come in through the front door, she says, and you leave by the front door too. No back exit. No hidden hallway for the dead. The same respect walking out as walking in.

Word spreads. Families who thought their dying relative would spend final weeks alone in a downtown ward start hearing about a house in Kirkland where nine people at a time get to die at home in every way that matters, just not literally their own home.

Dellar earns a Bereavement Facilitator certification in 1995, before the Residence even opens. She adds an Association for Death Education and Counseling certification in 2009. In 2012 she becomes a certified Fellow in Thanatology.

That same year, 2012, the Residence adds 14 more beds on a dedicated floor of a nearby long-term care facility. Total capacity: 23 beds. It becomes the largest freestanding, community-based palliative care residence in the entire country.

For 21 years, Dellar runs it. Colleagues remember her wit as much as her vision, a leader who could find lightness inside a building where every single guest is dying.

By 2019, more than 4,400 people have died inside those walls, surrounded by trained volunteers and staff instead of strangers on a downtown ward.

Then the disease she spent two decades fighting on behalf of others comes for her.

Teresa Dellar dies of cancer on August 19, 2019, at the Royal Victoria Hospital, at 58 years old.

She spent 21 years making sure other people did not die afraid and alone in an unfamiliar place. In the end, she does not get to walk back out the front door of the home she built.

On September 10, 2020, the Residence is officially renamed in her honor. The Teresa Dellar Palliative Care Residence. A capital campaign called Caring and Sharing raises $14,570,000 to expand her vision even further under one roof.

Today the Residence relies on more than 300 trained volunteers who give over 29,000 hours of care every single year, free of charge to every family that walks through that same front door Dellar once described.

None of it started with a building or a grant. It started with one social worker who could not stop thinking about strangers dying alone on a hospital ward two bus transfers from home, and who decided that was something she could actually fix.

Someone who needs to know - the people who quietly refuse to accept "that's just how it is" are the ones who end up changing everything."

08/09/2026

So apparently, I don’t get invited to many parties anymore. Can’t imagine why. I bring snacks, I laugh at people’s jokes… oh, and yes, I might casually bring up death somewhere between the chips and the cheese platter. My “Gabby’s Swear Jar” has a few sad coins rattling around, but my “Gabby Talked About Death at a Party Jar”? Overflowing. Like, needs-a-bigger-jar overflowing.

But here’s the thing, I don’t talk about death to kill the vibe (pun totally intended). I talk about it because it matters. If we don’t talk about it, no one else will. And if my party small talk inspires someone to have that big, necessary conversation with someone they love, then I’d say that’s better than debating which Bravo show has the most drama, though, let’s be honest, it’s always Real Housewives.

So yes, I may be the guest who accidentally turns cocktail hour into group therapy, and there might be a few tears in the room, but if it helps even one person face the hard stuff with a little more courage and grace, then pass me another coin for the jar. Talking about death won’t make it happen sooner… but it might make living a whole lot richer.

Maybe one day I’ll learn to keep things light, but until then, I’ll just show up with tissues AND a bottle of wine. I like to think of it as emotional hydration with options.

xo
Gabby
www.thehospiceheart.net

08/08/2026

I recently rewatched the Netflix series “From Scratch,” which is based on the book by Tembi Locke. As you move through your life after a death, trying to navigate your grief, you will experience triggers that take you right back to a time, in many ways you want to forget, but as I am realizing, I need to remember. This series was beautiful, well done, and I recommend it, however it was triggering for me. It reminded me how messy things can be when someone is dying in a hospital environment, and how important it is for us to advocate for better, kinder, and more compassionate end-of-life care.

My brother was in the ICU for eighteen days and that in itself was difficult, but as a hospice nurse, everything about it went against what I believe in how human beings should be cared for when they are dying. While they were kind, and did their job well, at no time did I feel a personal compassionate connection from anyone, and when I asked blunt questions like, “is he going to die,” no one had an answer for me. I begged to speak to someone in palliative care, to provide him with a kinder, and more compassionate death, which I knew was a very possible reality, but no one would go there with me. I kept hearing, “it’s not time for that yet,” and I wanted to scream out loud … “at what point will it be time to have this conversation?????” I felt completely helpless…

On the night that he died, we ran to the hospital after receiving the call to come quickly, and when we approached his room, I screamed out “STOP,” as I witnessed twenty different people trying to beat him back to life. I understand how harsh that must sound, but from my view, that is exactly what I was witnessing… and it was because he chose to have all measures taken to save his life. At the time he voiced that decision, I know without any doubt that he had no idea what that truly meant. Thankfully they did stop, and we had about three minutes to sit down next to him, take his hand, tell him he was loved, and say goodbye. It was one of the most difficult times of my life.

My point in this blog is to encourage you right now to allow someone else to be your voice when you do not have one. Research what “full code” means and know that even if all drastic measures are taken, there is no guarantee that you will live, or that your quality of life would be worth any of that. Know that you have a choice, even if you do not have a voice.

“Full code means that if a person's heart stopped beating and/or they stopped breathing, all resuscitation procedures will be provided to keep them alive. This process can include chest compressions, intubation, and defibrillation and is referred to as CPR.” This is the nice version of what the reality of it truly looks like, especially to those who are witnessing it.

In many situations, full code/CPR can save a life, it can bring someone back to life and they can live many more years beautifully, without pain or suffering of any kind. It is important to know the truth about what full code/CPR would mean for each person individually. I knew that everything they were doing to “save his life,” because that was what he wanted, would have never allowed him to have a life without pain or suffering, physically or emotionally. At what point do we say STOP?

We do not want to imagine the people we love dying, we certainly do not want to imagine them in the ICU, with machines being the only thing keeping them alive, and the sounds of them being the last thing you or they hear as you say goodbye. Know that palliative care, which I consider compassionate care, can be offered in a hospital situation. Your voice can be the difference between what I experienced, and a gentler, kinder version of that.

I had a conversation with a woman just the other day who asked why her oncologist would not give a hospice order for her husband. He was home with her, weak, declining quickly, and he was dying, and she did not have the support I explained she could have if he was on palliative care or hospice. She said they kept telling her, “It is not time yet.”

I do not understand why people are left to wait until the very last moment to begin palliative or hospice care. This makes no sense to me.

Human beings deserve to be cared for with kindness and compassion when they are dying. If you do not make your wishes known, someone will make decisions for you. Please put in writing now who can speak on your behalf if you are unable to. Let’s work collaboratively to help improve the way people are cared for when they are dying.

xo
Gabby

“Compassion is the wish to see others free from suffering.”
– Dalai Lama

Pease note... this is in no way meant to be criticism for the ICU or the team of incredible people who work there. Theirs is not an easy job, one I admittedly could not do, and highly respect. This blog is about advocating for a kind and compassionate death, making your wishes known, and asking someone else to speak for you if you cannot speak for yourself.

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/at-what-point-do-we-say-stop

08/07/2026

I know I talk about this often, but it is because I believe so deeply in the importance of having conversations about death and dying before we are sitting at the bedside.

Talking about death and dying will not make it happen sooner, and silence will not slow it down.

What these conversations do is help the people we love know what matters most to us if a time comes when we can no longer speak for ourselves.

I received a call from a woman I had never met. She had been given my name by someone I had supported before. Her mother had a sudden change in condition and was in the hospital, no longer responsive. She was about to board a flight to come see her mother who she hadn’t seen in a few years.

I could hear the helplessness in her voice. She felt lost and kept asking, “What can I do for her? How can I support her? What does she need?”

I asked what she knew about her mother. She told me her mother had a strong faith, so I said, “Then the first thing you can do is pray with her.”

So when she arrived at the hospital, she sat beside her mother and prayed.

Later, when we met in person, we went together to her mother’s apartment and looked for the things that might feel familiar and comforting. We found her pajamas, a quilt from her bed, a few photos, her hairbrush, a small mirror, Chapstick, and her Bible.

We brought those things back to the hospital. Together, we changed her mother into her pajamas, laid the quilt over her, and placed her personal belongings beside her bed.

Her daughter read prayers to her for three days.

And then her mother woke up.

One of the first things she said was, “You prayed for me.”

That moment meant everything.

It told her daughter that her mother had heard her. That she knew she was there. That even in the silence, something between them had connected.

Her mother pulled the quilt up close to her, almost as if she were being held by it. And her daughter knew she had brought her something that mattered.

Her mother lived three more days, but in those three days, they connected in a way they may not have otherwise. There had been distance between them, but at the bedside, something softened.

Her daughter called me the morning her mother had died.

The voice I heard was not the same voice I heard during that first call. There was grief, of course, but there was also peace.

Peace because she knew her mother had heard her.
Peace because she knew her mother knew she was there.
Peace because she had done what she believed would bring her mother comfort.

This is why the conversation matters.

Not just the big conversations about medical decisions, but the tender ones too.

What brings you comfort?
What prayers, songs, or words would matter to you?
What blanket would feel like home?
What small things would you want near you?
What would help the people who love you know how to show up?

Because if the time comes when we no longer have a voice, the people we love can become our voice.

And sometimes, knowing what brings someone peace is one of the most beautiful ways we can honor them.

xo
Gabby
www.thehospiceheart.net

If you need a little help getting the conversation started, my book might be helpful:
https://www.amazon.com/Conversation-guide-talking-about-people/dp/B0CZXD4BT4/ref=pd_aw_sim_hxwPM1_sspa_mw_detail_m_sccl_2_6/147-8092894-3630558?

08/07/2026

Beautiful

I have been present for many after-death bathing’s over the years.
Some were quiet.
Some were filled with tears.
Some, surprisingly, were filled with laughter as families shared stories and memories while caring for someone they love.

Every one of them taught me the same thing…caring for someone's body after they die isn't really about the body, it is about love.

For thousands of years, across nearly every culture and faith, families have gently washed the bodies of those they love after death. Ancient Egyptians cleansed the body before burial. Jewish communities continue the sacred practice of Taharah. In Islam, Ghusl is a final act of devotion. Hindu traditions include bathing the body before cremation as a way of honoring the transition from this life.

Different cultures.
Different beliefs.
Different prayers.
Yet the same human instinct…
To care.
To honor.
To love one last time.

Somewhere along the way, particularly in Western culture, we began handing that responsibility to professionals. Funeral homes became the place where bodies were prepared. Families stepped back, often believing they shouldn't see, touch, or care for the person after death.

We have become wonderfully skilled at caring for people while they are dying, but many of us have forgotten that caring doesn't have to end the moment death occurs. I think that's a loss. Not because everyone should bathe the body of someone they love, but because we have forgotten that we can.

One thing I would like to mention before going any further is that the laws and policies surrounding after-death care are different depending on where you live. In some places, families are encouraged to participate in washing and caring for their loved one. In others, healthcare facilities, funeral homes, or local regulations may limit who can provide that care. If this is something that speaks to your heart, I encourage you to ask your hospice team or funeral provider what is possible where you live.

People often ask me why someone would want to bathe a body after death. The answer is rarely because the body needs it, the answer is because sometimes our hearts do.

After weeks, months, or even years of caregiving, there are suddenly no medications to organize, no appointments to rush to, no symptoms to manage.
Everything stops. Death asks nothing of us except our presence.

An after-death bathing ritual simply gives our hands something gentle to do while our hearts catch up.
It allows grief to slow down.
It reminds us that love is still something we can offer.

Some families choose to add herbs, flowers, or even a simple herbal infusion to the warm water. Lavender, rosemary, rose petals, chamomile… each carries its own meaning of comfort, remembrance, or peace. I don't see these as ancient rules that everyone has followed throughout history, rather, I see them as beautiful personal rituals that help transform an ordinary bowl of water into something sacred.

The fragrance softens the room.
The warm water slows our movements.
The ritual reminds us that this moment deserves our full attention.

Another question I am asked quite often is whether the body will immediately begin to smell. In my experience, this is one of the greatest fears families have, and thankfully, it is usually based more on myth than reality.

The body doesn't immediately begin to decompose. In most circumstances, there is time to sit together, share stories, cry, laugh, and simply be with the person you love.

Natural changes happen gradually and are influenced by many things, including temperature, illness, and the environment. This is why ice is sometimes placed beneath the body during a home vigil. It isn't because the body is unsafe or because families need to hurry, cooling simply slows the body's natural changes, allowing more time for presence, conversation, and goodbyes.

And perhaps that is what I hope families understand most, there is rarely a need to rush.
There is time.
There is permission to pause.

Over the years, I also learned something else, not everyone wants to participate in bathing the entire body. Some people worry that seeing their loved one undressed will become the image they carry forever, others simply don't feel comfortable, and I believe that deserves every bit as much respect.

Love should never feel forced.
So, I began offering a different kind of ritual…

We fill a bowl with warm water.
Sometimes we add a few drops of fragrant oils.
Sometimes there are flower petals floating on the surface.
Sometimes a candle is lit.
Sometimes music quietly fills the room.
Sometimes there is only silence.

Each person who wishes to participate is handed a washcloth, which has been soaking in the water.
The body remains respectfully covered, with only one small area uncovered at a time; a hand, a foot, the forehead, the face, or the shoulders.
No one has to do more than feels comfortable.
There is no right way.
Only your way.

As each part of the body is gently washed, I like to offer words of gratitude…

Thank you, mind, for every thought, every memory, every dream, and every lesson.
Thank you, eyes, for every sunrise, every smile, every tear, and every beautiful thing you allowed us to see.
Thank you, ears, for every laugh, every whispered secret, every favorite song, and every "I love you."
Thank you, mouth, for every conversation, every meal shared, every kiss, every apology, every truth, and every expression of love.
Thank you, heart, for loving so deeply and teaching us that love continues long after a heartbeat ends.
Thank you, hands, for every embrace, every meal prepared, every child comforted, every life touched.
Thank you, feet, for carrying this beautiful soul through an entire lifetime, for every step taken in courage, in joy, in uncertainty, and in hope.

And finally...
Thank you, body.
Thank you for showing up every single day.
Thank you for carrying a lifetime of memories.
Thank you for making hugs possible.
For dancing.
For healing.
For working.
For resting.
For aging.
For allowing this extraordinary person to love and to be loved.

You have done enough.
You may rest now.

When people ask me if after-death bathing is necessary, my answer is simple. No, it isn't necessary, but neither is…
Holding someone's hand
Reading their favorite poem
Playing their favorite song
Sitting beside them in silence.
Lighting a candle.
Or whispering one last "I love you."

None of those things are necessary, but all of them remind us that love doesn't end when life does.

Perhaps that's why humans have been bathing their dead for thousands of years. Not because the body needs one last bath, but because the people left behind sometimes need one last act of love.

And maybe, just maybe, that's what this ritual has always been.
Not washing a body.
But blessing a life.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/after-death-bathing-a-final-act-of-love