Caregiving, Grief, and Connection: A Real Story of Hope and Healing
From Tragedy to Trajectory - when people become lifelines.
Let me tell you something I’ve learned the hard way.
Tragedy? It’ll gut you. It’ll flip your world upside down, pull the rug out from under you, and leave you gasping for air in the middle of a drive-through line. And yet… somehow, it also does something else.
It can propel you forward.
But not alone. We think we can do it solo - God knows I’ve tried. Most of my life, I’ve dragged myself through hell and clawed my way back, thinking I didn’t need anyone.
But here’s the truth I’ve come to learn in the quiet: I’ve always had help. Sometimes invisible. Sometimes loud. Always unexpected.
And yesterday? That help had a name. Bernard.
I was just trying to pick something up for my mom. No big scene. Just another hard day in a long stretch of them. But when Bernard - the man at the drive-through window - looked me in the eye and asked how I was doing, something cracked open.
And then we held hands through that window, both of us crying. He lost his mom at six. He knew. He knew!
And right then, with cars piling up behind me, Bernard wasn’t just a worker. He was a healer. A divine appointment. He didn’t want my money. He gave everything to me for free - not the food, the humanity.
The reminder that I wasn’t alone.
I called his manager. And his manager’s manager. And the regional guy above them. Because that kind of kindness should echo. That kind of leadership - the kind that starts from the top, with heart - needs to be seen. Needs to ripple.
That moment didn’t just feed me. It turned my whole damn week around.
Late at night after the tears, after I sat in the dark for what felt like forever - a call came through.
I answered. We talked. Not five minutes.
Hours. Deep, real conversation. About life. About purpose. About how damn hard it gets. And how we all need someone to reach out sometimes - even if it’s just one person. Even if it’s just once.
That call was a hand in the dark. A soul reaching out when mine had nothing left. It wasn’t about fixing anything. It was about not being alone in it.
And that? That changed everything.
Because this time… it was different. This time it wasn’t some old pattern I could grit my way through. This time it was cancer. My mom. My family. A gut punch I never saw coming.
And yeah - I know all the right things to say. I’ve spent my whole life holding other people up. Teaching them how to walk through the fire.
But when it hits your own chest? When it’s your mom in the procedure room?
All those words feel like dust…
Here’s the thing though - we don’t have to be tough all the time.
Sometimes we need others to hold us up.
Sometimes we sit in the silence, and it’s someone else who carries the next breath for us. And then, when we can, we do the same for someone else.
That’s how it works.
That’s how we survive.
That’s how we grow.
I can’t tell you it’s all gonna be okay.
Hell, I don’t even know what “okay” means anymore. But I can tell you this:
You’re not alone.
There’s someone out there who’s ready to hold your hand through the window. Someone who’s walked through their own fire and came out willing to share the match.
Let them in!
And when you’re ready? You’ll be that person for someone else.
Because that’s how we heal. That’s how we move forward.
From tragedy… to trajectory.
Transform To Wellness- Kathleen Thorne RN, LMT (RN3252112/ MA54880)
Wow Kathleen, thank you for being so raw and so open to sharing what you are going through. Bernard at the drive-through window holding hands through that window, both of you crying. Just made me cry! I love "A divine appointment." We find the people just when we need them most and it is never the same person or the same experience. Sending you much haling and prayers
I struggled with this thought yesterday. Last day of school, only half day and the fourteen year old sits in the principal’s office. The secretary murmurs he can’t act like that. He lost his mom to a horrible death this year. His teacher retired in April. His stepdad has moved on to another woman, who is taking all the kids on fabulous vacations. The question- How long is a kid allowed to grieve? How long? Grandma says we are hurting but have to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps. Can’t miss too much school. Can’t act out. Grieving time is over. As a nurse, am I a coddler? I had my first brush with my mom living death when I was twenty. She told me she was ready to die, but I told her I wasn’t ready for her to die. She lived twenty seven years after that diagnosis. My nursing instructors wanted me to take a year off. I told them, my mom would see that as loss of goals and give up herself. She had my dad and I followed through with getting married as well.
Four summers ago, my private duty patient coded on me. He felt like a grandson. But he wasn’t and my dog comforted me in my mourning. I couldn’t publicly grieve. My own platitudes crushed flat at my feet. Numb, I got through those weeks until I met my new case. A boy and family so different from my “little guy.”
So did I coddle this fourteen year old- you betcha. And all these other students overcoming situations my culture can’t believe. I guess I could write a book.
I’m praying for you, Kathleen. Do whatever you need to do.