- User type
- OCD Conqueror
- Date posted
- 15h
I recently lost my best friend — my grandpa. The night of his death was traumatizing in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I’ve 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 didn’t only feel like his granddaughter that night — I became the healthcare family member, the decision-maker, the advocate. That split — nurse and granddaughter — shoved me into overdrive. When his prognosis became clear, I moved into roles I never imagined I’d 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 couldn’t cry. I felt sad, angry, exhausted — everything that comes with grief — but the tears didn’t come. My emotions were still “at work,” 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: I’ve always struggled with depression and health anxiety, but after his death a new terror arrived — 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 fiancé and I had planned for months became one of the hardest times I’ve 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 — coffee, alcohol, exercise, even sex — 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? What’s 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 couldn’t be contained. Once it broke loose, the waves came — sadness, panic, terror — and I felt like I was drowning at times. And yet — even in the middle of this storm — I am working on myself. I am choosing care. I enrolled in more therapy sessions and I’m 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 people’s stories that mirror my own; there is comfort in that shared language. I’m practicing small, brave exposures to the things I’ve been avoiding — a short walk, a half-cup of coffee, a moment of gentle movement — 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 fiancé when I’m scared so I don’t 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. I’m learning that being an ICU nurse doesn’t make me immune to pain — it makes me human in my grief — 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.
