Nancy Mendez-Walker is a Bereavement Companion at Cowichan Hospice and has been with the organization since September 2017.
“What brought me to hospice as a volunteer was a journey that began many years ago, when a knock at the door early one winter morning would change my life forever. It was a man bringing word that my husband, Andy, who was on his way home from a night shift at work, had gone off the road and our car was found crumpled up against a tree. I had left my children that morning, a son, 4 and a daughter, 2, still sleeping, calling a friend to be with them so I could go to the hospital. I believed that I would take them to see their dad later in the day, once we knew the extent of his injuries, not for a moment considering that he would die and they would never see him again. We were both just 28 years old, and were preparing for the birth of our third child, who was due in three months. Life was unfolding in a wonderful way for our little family, with Andy recently landing a great job at a mill nearby and practicing his passion as a paramedic at a local station. Life was full with his job, our children and our volunteer positions in our small community and death was simply not something we had thought much about.
Just two nights earlier we had taken the kids for an evening walk following a snow storm, stopping at the school field that lay untouched, the snow shimmering like a blanket of diamonds in the moonlight. Andy had let go of the sled he had been pulling, and as the children tumbled off of it, he began to run around and around in the deep snow, our dog nipping playfully at his feet. The children tried to give chase, stumbling about in their cumbersome snowsuits, their laughter echoing in the stillness of the night. Suddenly Andy dropped to the ground and began to make an angel, and our dog had done the same, rolling crazily on his back, making us all laugh harder. Our son, calling out to me and his little sister to make one too, joined them, and so we all made one, laughing happily as we did. As we turned to walk home, I remember looking back over my shoulder at our little angel family imprinted in the snow, and feeling such joy! Andy had reached out to wrap his arm around me, his hand finding the swell of my pregnant tummy, cradling it protectively. Everything, in that moment, was perfect.
Two days later, he was gone.
And I was thrown, instantly, into a sea of grief.
Nothing in my life had prepared me for the pain and fear that I felt, or how turbulent that grief would be. The sadness would crash over me, throwing me off my feet, day after day, as I tried to cope with my little ones, and their confusion over what had happened to our life. We had to move early on, to be closer to family, and so I sunk myself into getting the move done and being ready for my baby to be born. All of my energy went into my children, who were too young to understand fully what had happened. They would ask daily for their daddy, and each time I had to tell them that he could not return, that he had died, my heart would break more and more until it felt completely shattered. The days were long and chaotic, and the nights, when all was still, became my hell. I was surrounded by family and friends, all who were stepping up to help us get settled, but none who really understood what I was going through and I began to see that my pain was too much for most to bear. I learned early on to shut down the tears, stuff the feelings and push on, but the ocean of grief loomed ahead of me, like a dark hole, and I soon began to flounder. It would come in great waves and it was all that I could do to keep myself afloat, trying desperately to catch a breath before they would clutch at me again, threatening to suck me under.
When I look back, I can clearly see the life rings that my higher power threw to me, to hold me afloat while I learned to navigate the turbulent waters of grief that had become my life. These were people who previously had been strangers, but who had been brought to me to see me through this difficult time. One of these was a woman, sent by the funeral home. She was not just a bereavement companion, but also a trained midwife, and even though she did not attend the birth of my son, she was a tremendous support before and after he was born. She gave me the gift of understanding exactly what I was going through and her gentleness and compassion was what I needed until I could get my feet under me again, and begin to find my way. She was a person who had no emotional connection to me or my husband and so was not experiencing her own grief over his loss. She was fully present for me, each time we were together, listening without judgement and placing no expectations on me as to how my grief process should look. She connected me to another young widow who also had three young children and who helped me to begin a support group for others like us, as there was nothing in our valley available to young families at that time. As the weeks went by I would learn that she was also a hospice volunteer, and it was through her that a young father of two came into our group. She had been the hospice companion throughout his wife’s long illness and death, and now had connected us for the bereavement support that our little group could offer him. I had no way of knowing then that I would fall in love and marry this man, or that his children would become older siblings to my own, but that is what unfolded over the coming months and years. Together we began to navigate the turbulent sea of grief and help our children to heal. There came a time when we no longer needed the support of our group, as we all settled into our new lives, and this lady moved on in her life as well, but for the time that it had been there for us, it had been a life line.
Our five children are raised now, and life has marched along at an incredible pace. I have been blessed with a wonderful, supportive husband and together we have seen four of our children get married and have welcomed six grandchildren. We have taken the foundation of grief that brought our family together, and on it have been able to build a full, blessed life. For me, that has included a desire to share my experience, strength, and hope with others in much the same way that someone once shared with us.
We have not remained untouched by further loss. In the last five years we have both lost our fathers to cancer, my brother to suicide and my brother in law to an overdose. We have also seen Aunts and Uncles, our in law parents and some friends pass on, but grief is no longer a dark, scary place for me. I understand the importance of a healthy grieving process, where I now feel the feelings that come up and share them in a safe place, allowing me to honor the life of the one who has passed and to celebrate the love that was shared with clarity. Mostly, though, I have learned to approach my own grief process with patience, gentleness and compassion, giving to myself what I had once been given by a total stranger.
Last year I found myself in a lengthy recovery from a shoulder surgery that took me off work. I was finally able to look into the hospice volunteer program, something that I had always known, when the time was right, would be the next right thing for me in my journey. I have found it to be a continuation of the healing that began in me all those years ago and a sense of purpose has come out of that terrible time and all of my experiences since.
The first time I sat with a bereavement client, I was nervous… could I be effective? Could I help them in some small way, in the way that I had been helped? As the young man began to tell me his story, I could hear his pain. I could feel his fear. I could see his tears. I knew well, this intensely personal and vulnerable place from which he was sharing. I also knew that from this place, would come the inability for him to hear me, unless my words, like a life ring being thrown to him in his sea of pain, landed softly, and gave him the hope on which to cling. I paused, breathing in deeply and then quietly began to tell him of the place from which I have come, and it was there, in the depths of mutual loss, where we connected and I could see the relief of being heard and understood spread across his face.”
Nancy Mendes-Walker
