This morning, I received a call that made my heart sink. My evening client—someone who had become more like family—was admitted to the hospital. His body is rejecting his second stem cell transplant, and the outlook is grim.
I have never been good at dealing with death. It weighs on me, settling deep in my chest like an ache I can’t quite shake. My clients are not just clients; they are my teachers, my friends, my extended family. They share their stories, their wisdom, their laughter, and their fears with me. In return, I get the privilege of walking beside them through some of life’s hardest moments.
But as much as my heart aches, I remind myself of something he told me not long ago. He said he was ready. Ready to be free of the pain. Ready to reunite with his wife—the love he lost to complications from Covid.
I remember our last conversation. We were joking, laughing, trying to keep things light despite the heaviness of his reality. He told me he hoped that in his next life, he wouldn’t have to do laundry because, frankly, he had no clue how to do it. I laughed and thought, If only that were my biggest concern about the next life.
It’s moments like these that remind me how fragile and precious life is. We spend so much time worrying about the things that, in the grand scheme of things, don’t really matter. And yet, even in his final stretch, my client found a way to make me smile.
Death is never easy. But knowing that he’s at peace with what’s coming—that he’s looking forward to reuniting with his wife—helps ease the sting just a little.
I’ll carry his stories with me, just as I do with all of my clients who have left before him. They are never truly gone. They live on in the lessons they’ve taught me, in the laughter they’ve shared, and in the love they’ve left behind.
So tonight, as I fold my laundry, I’ll think of him and smile. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll get his wish in the next life.
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