I recently lost my best friend ā my grandpa. The night of his death was traumatizing in a way I wasnāt prepared for. Iāve been an ICU nurse for years, surrounded by death and grief, but this time it was different. I was the first to notice how critical he became, and I immediately jumped into action. I didnāt only feel like his granddaughter that night ā I became the healthcare family member, the decision-maker, the advocate. That split ā nurse and granddaughter ā shoved me into overdrive.
When his prognosis became clear, I moved into roles I never imagined Iād hold for him: funeral coordinator, palliative care planner, end-of-life advocate. I was doing all the things that needed to be done, and somewhere in that motion my own grief got put on hold. At the funeral I couldnāt cry. I felt sad, angry, exhausted ā everything that comes with grief ā but the tears didnāt come. My emotions were still āat work,ā as if I was waiting for my shift to end.
Weeks later the wall came down. I finally cried, and with that release came a deep, heavy depression. Old patterns returned: Iāve always struggled with depression and health anxiety, but after his death a new terror arrived ā death anxiety. It felt like a friend had moved in with my old anxieties, and together they made everything louder and harder to bear.
A trip my fiancĆ© and I had planned for months became one of the hardest times Iāve had. Instead of rest, each day brought a panic attack. I found myself unable to leave the house and hyper-focused on every tiny body sensation. I started avoiding things that might raise my heart rate ā coffee, alcohol, exercise, even sex ā out of fear that a normal physical reaction meant catastrophe. I tried to protect myself by avoiding stimulants and activity, but that only deepened the exhaustion and the fear. Even being in another country triggered fear: what if something happened while I was too far away to help?
Whatās humiliating and humbling all at once is that I know the physiology. I know what is likely and what is not. I can recite the facts, and still my mind takes me to the worst-case. Grief blended with my clinical instincts in a way that kept me from feeling until it couldnāt be contained. Once it broke loose, the waves came ā sadness, panic, terror ā and I felt like I was drowning at times.
And yet ā even in the middle of this storm ā I am working on myself. I am choosing care. I enrolled in more therapy sessions and Iām showing up to them, even when it feels impossible. I joined a support group specifically for health anxiety and death anxiety and have started to hear other peopleās stories that mirror my own; there is comfort in that shared language. Iām practicing small, brave exposures to the things Iāve been avoiding ā a short walk, a half-cup of coffee, a moment of gentle movement ā and I celebrate each tiny win. I use grounding tools when panic hits, I keep emergency plans in my phone so travel feels safer, and I tell my fiancĆ© when Iām scared so I donāt carry it alone.
I am hurting. Some days the grief and fear feel like waves that will swallow me. But there are also signs of change: appointments kept, meetings attended, small steps that prove I can move through this. I am learning patience with myself and permission to grieve on my own timeline. Iām learning that being an ICU nurse doesnāt make me immune to pain ā it makes me human in my grief ā and being human is allowed.
Today I am acknowledging both the hurt and the hope. I am honoring the work I did for my grandpa, and I am also honoring the work I am doing for myself. The drowning feels real at times, but I am actively learning to float, to breathe, and to ask for an oar when I need it.
