Terminal respiratory secretions, also colloquially known as “the death rattle,” are the noisy breath sounds that occur when someone who is close to death is unable to clear the saliva and mucous secretions that collect at the back of the throat. Once the swallowing reflex is gone, the death rattle becomes a common sign that death is imminent.

My end-of-life doula training was, I believe, comprehensive and thorough. I was taught all about holding space, talking about sensitive subjects, bedside comfort care, and sitting vigil. I was instructed on legacy projects, providing family respite, and educating both family and the client about aspects—from the legal to what to expect when death is eminent.

It was a matter of taking just one step at a time but, over the course of more than four weeks, there were hundreds of thousands of them. I was walking the Camino de Santiago from the eastern border of Spain across the country to Santiago de Compostella. The Camino, also known as The Way, has been walked by pilgrims for hundreds of years.

Passed away. Passed on. Is deceased. Departed. Gave up the ghost. Didn’t make it. Lost her battle. Kicked the bucket. Breathed her last breath. Went to be with the Lord. Is in heaven. Was called home. Is in a better place… It seems that we will do anything to avoid saying the D-Word…DEAD. I see

Think about it…from the time we are born we are taught to see life as a series of lily pads. Each pad is a temporary foothold which allows us to move on to the next pad. We study hard so we can progress from one grade to the next. We go to university so we

COVID changed everything. I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know. But, for each of us, the “everything” that was changed varied. I think that most of us experienced anxiety, loneliness, stress induced by lack of control, a shifting of relationship dynamics, boredom, and trepidation about what might come next. For me, there was

Last year sucked. Can I say “sucked” in a blog? Never mind…I just did. And I meant it. Twenty-twenty will be a year that few will forget, no matter how we might try. Politics, social upheaval, and COVID were one-two-three body shots that left us gasping. Yet, we moved forward. It has been said that

I have been thinking about prison. Not that I have any plans to end up there. Just sayin’. But my Master’s degree is in criminology,* which explains why my mind often focuses on steely, slimy, uncomfortable topics…like prison. If you have never been to a prison, count yourself as lucky. They are no place you

The Christmas after my little sister was murdered was…strange. Kait had been eighteen that July when she died. I was already in my thirties, living in a different state with a husband and two small children. Over the months that followed each of us struggled with how to deal with our shock and grief. I

I am not a joiner. My idea of hell was the Girl Scouts, which my mother signed me up for without consulting me first. I have friends who belong to book clubs and serve on meaningful committees. I honor both their interests and their work, but can’t imagine putting my tush in their seats. In

It was back in 2016 when my best friend, Christine and I took a year-long seminary program, together, in Lafayette, CO, that we first heard the term “doula.” It’s certainly not a common, everyday word, and if you’re like most people, you may not be familiar with it, either. Several weeks into the program, we