The Caregiving Journey That Became a Calling
Why I Founded the Center for Death Education
For the last five years of my grandmother’s life, I was deeply involved in her care. We moved through every stage of aging and decline together—independent living, assisted living, memory care, and skilled nursing. Each transition brought new challenges and emotions. But when she entered hospice, I realized how unprepared I truly was.
Coming from the skilled nursing facility, I did not know what to bring. I remember standing in her room, looking at her belongings, and thinking, I cannot imagine her without her favorite things. So I packed everything that felt like her—knickknacks, her hairbrush, lotion, and clothes—because I did not know what else to do.
The hospice team was kind and caring. They handed me a booklet about what to expect, which I quickly leafed through. It was helpful, but it did not come close to preparing me for what lay ahead.
Within the first few hours, my grandmother began talking to people in the room—people I could not see—with recognition and comfort. I sat there wondering what to do. Should I respond? Correct her? Or simply sit with her in whatever world she was experiencing?
When she slept, I held her hand. I had not realized that her hands could become cold and blue while her forehead and core remained warm and sweaty. I was not prepared for the changes in her breathing—sometimes rapid, sometimes slow—or for the rattling sound that followed.
Then came the moment that confused me most. After being in a sleep-like state for days, she suddenly sat up, looked directly at me, and asked for food. I raced around the hospice unit, desperate to find something she might enjoy. I brought her chocolate pudding and cranberry juice, which she happily nibbled and drank. In that moment, I thought, She is getting better. We are in the wrong place!
I had no idea that this burst of clarity—sometimes called an end-of-life rally—can occur during the dying process. Had I understood what was happening, I might have experienced that moment differently.
When she died, I was unprepared for the grief that followed. I had known for months that she was going to die, yet the finality of her death still stunned me. I remember thinking, How can something I expected still feel so shocking?
Grief arrived as disorientation, exhaustion, and the tension of missing her while also feeling relieved that her suffering had ended. I did not know how to reconcile those truths. That was the beginning of my search for answers.
One night, I typed “the study of death” into Google and discovered thanatology—a word I had never heard before but immediately recognized as the path I needed to follow. I returned to school and began learning what I had not known: the dying process, grief responses, end-of-life care, and the patterns that shape how people cope with loss.
I also realized that most people will never pursue a degree in thanatology, yet everyone will encounter dying, death, and grief—often with little guidance or preparation. That realization became a calling.
I founded the Center for Death Education because I want people to have the knowledge I did not have when I needed it most. Our live online classes, taught by professionals who work in these fields every day, offer practical, compassionate guidance about death, dying, grief, and end-of-life care. We help people prepare for what is ahead, make sense of what they have already lived through, and talk more openly about death within their families and communities.
My vision is a future in which dying, death, and grief are recognized as integral parts of the human experience—not subjects to fear or avoid; a future where families can speak honestly and no one has to navigate death feeling entirely alone or unprepared.
This work began with my grandmother, but it has grown into something much larger. I believe it is time for death education to become part of our national conversation.
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