When I cared for my cousin Betty, throughout her several-month-long journey of transitioning, throughout the days and nights, she described people she was seeing who had passed away previously, men dressed in purple robes, and lions perched on pedestals. One day, she described a man I couldn’t see, but who was sitting beside me on the sofa. He was spotless and dressed impeccably as he sat with one leg perched on his other knee and a hat hanging from the tip of his shoe. To this day, I feel privileged and honored to have been a part of her journey.

I slept on the sofa to be near Betty and ask for angels to surround her with peace, and pray that God would help us get through. And oh, please, God, grant me patience. She needed very little pain medicine and ate and drank up to the last 72 hours. There were none of the signs that hospice typically predicts, and yet we both understood the process, recognizing that it was not to be feared but instead a loving process of healing before passing: earth to earth, dust to dust, the most elegant of all words.

There was a day Medicare came to visit to see if Betty still required hospice. It was an unnecessary moment that marred an otherwise spiritual passage. I had the distinct feeling that the Medicare representative wasn’t interested in knowing if we needed any assistance. She wanted to know “how long before Betty dies.” That day required me to exercise patience and maintain a firm hold on my tongue.

When my husband’s grandmother passed, we had the blessing of one last visit with her. We said goodbye, gave her a kiss and a squeeze of her hand, then turned and left. When we got home a few minutes later, my husband’s aunt called to say G-G had passed. “When you walked out, the window rattled softly. It was as if her soul went out the window.” I love that memory and appreciate the opportunity to get to know her through her cancer journey.

My parents loved each other as though every day was the first day together, until it was the last. I was my mother’s care partner and assisted Betty in her transition. I was involved with my husband’s grandmother’s end-of-life cancer journey. Life is a series of hellos and farewells. The knowing looks, the hand squeezes, the cries of grief. There’s love in asking, “Can I get you anything?” and again in the bringing without being requested; in the silence when no words need be spoken.

Because we don’t talk about leaving this earth, we are ill-prepared for that part of our journey. Leaving here is not something to be hastened; yet, we shouldn’t miss the elegance that is brought to the transition phase of our life journey. Dying shouldn’t be thought of as sad and horrible. Remember this: love is the strongest bond and cannot be broken. Human or animal, we will meet our loved ones again.