I HAVE HAD the privilege of working as a Night Nurse for the Irish Cancer Society for four years.

When people ask what area I work in and I explain that I care for people who are at the very end of their life, people often ask, “Do you not find that very hard?”

I presume they think of the grief of the person’s family and friends, the pain my patient may have, and the fear experienced by everyone involved.

When I think of my job, though, my perspective is completely different.

I think of how I can use my skills to treat the patient’s pain and other symptoms, too. How I sit with them in the dark of night and reassure them during their fears. I think about how grief is a journey, one that is different for everyone.

The life of a night nurse

My work journey starts at around 10 pm, when I leave to drive to my patient’s home. That can bring me all over Connaught, be it quiet country roads, villages, towns or cities.

Even an island on occasion.

When I arrive at their home, I am usually welcomed by my patient’s family.

I imagine it can be difficult the first time they meet me – this stranger arriving at their door, so late at night, that they then need to trust me to care for their loved one.

I always try to reassure the family member who might be there that it’s now safe for them to go to bed themselves, knowing that their family member will be cared for well. They have often been providing care for their loved one around the clock for days, weeks or often months, and usually need to rest.

Daffodil Day is on 20 March. Alamy Stock Photo Alamy Stock Photo

Some try to sleep, others stay up to chat for a while. The nighttime is quiet, and it leaves space for their questions and concerns to arise without distraction.

I give medications if needed, and make sure that my patient is comfortable and pain free. If their condition deteriorates suddenly, I will wake their family. Everyone wants to be there for their loved one at the end, and no one wants to be alone.

Caring for people at the end

Fear is often in the room with us, but the truth that I have seen is that love shines through fear. People do not always bid farewell with tears alone, but with a sad smile and a lifetime of memories.

When a patient passes away during my shift, and their family have had as much time as they need finishing their goodbyes, there’s often a quiet moment.

Many, many times, this silence ends when “the stories” start. This is the part that helps me understand their loss the most. This, so close to the moment of death, is often when families talk about their loved one’s LIFE.

Having never met this person before their illness, I’m given a window into who they were before. Loving parents and grandparents, sport people, valued community members, dancers, bakers, friends… the list goes on.

After the practical jobs are taken care of, I’m often asked if I’d like a cup of tea before I start my journey home, and I never refuse. As a stranger in the house, I sometimes think that families see me as a fresh ear to hear all the “stories”, filled with love and pride, anew.

Pictures on the walls will be pointed to, weddings and family events revisited and even treasured photo albums taken from a shelf and proudly opened (maybe for the first time in years). This is why I never view my job as being “hard”. I see it as an honour and a privilege to help part of my patients’ final days and acknowledge the valuable life they have lived.

Depending on the time of year, I often drive to work in the pitch dark, lashing rain and poor visibility. When I work in areas in the far west, the beautiful scenery just flies past me. Dark, invisible and unnoticed.

When I drive home at 7 am after my shift, the sun is rising, and my surroundings are revealed. I discovered that, on unfamiliar roads, I missed a lot in the dark and unknown the night before, which is revealed to me now. Forested mountains and wide, still lakes, they can come like a surprise, out of the blue.

I once worked with a patient who lived on an island connected to the mainland by a series of bridges. I left their home to discover I was surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean, it having been hidden from my view in the darkness the night before. Maybe this situation, quite unique to my job, has some deeper significance. But I’ll leave that up to you.

Being able to die peacefully at home is a wish made by the person and fulfilled by their family. We can only provide this unique service because of the massive support we receive from the public on Daffodil Day. For this, we are beyond grateful.

Night Nursing is delivered by highly trained, registered nurses who provide care and support between the hours of 11 pm and 7 am. This vital, free-of-charge service is the only service of its kind in Ireland, and it provides free end-of-life care in order to allow cancer patients to spend their final days at home, surrounded by family and loved ones.

Richard Keane is an Irish Cancer Society Night Nurse, based in the West of Ireland. Anyone with a concern or query about cancer can contact the Irish Cancer Society’s Freephone Support Line at 1800 200 700 or email supportline@irishcancer.ie. Daffodil Day is on 20 March. You can donate via the Irish Cancer Society website here. 

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