Am I His Wife or His Hospice Nurse?
The slow shift from lover to nurse, and the deep love that lives in that space.
I was sinking my teeth into a bowl of hatch chile mac and cheese, bulgogi beef, coconut rice, and southwestern corn, when a stranger-turned-friend sent me a message that stopped me mid-chew. She asked, “Am I his wife, or his hospice nurse?”
She wasn't being cold. It was a real question from a woman who had found herself slipping out of one role and into another, and didn’t quite know how to stay in both.
She told me how she used to date men her age—some younger—but after a few years of bullshit, she started swiping right on older men. More maturity, more calm, more security. She got it, too. Fourteen years of it. Exciting dates across the world. No drama. Fewer arguments than she could count on one hand. He made her feel safe, cherished, like the kind of woman people write songs about. That kind of love.
Then he got sick.
Then sicker.
Then recovered.
But age kept creeping in. Hips that needed replacing. A shoulder that locked up on chilly days. A crick in his neck that won’t give him peace. A long list of little things that add up to one big reminder: he’s not the man she first danced through airports with. And she’s not just his wife anymore. She’s the one refilling his pill organizer. She’s the one lifting and folding and bathing and feeding and massaging and reminding and driving and waiting in lobbies for appointments that keep getting pushed back. She’s the one making sure the man she loves is still here.
And that kind of caregiving—that constant caregiving—can change the energy in a relationship. It’s no longer sexy. It’s no longer shared. You’re not meeting him at the door in a silk robe. You’re meeting him in scrubs and compression socks.
Now, I’m a death doula. I sit at deathbeds and help people and their people prepare for the end. But here’s a little plot twist: in undergrad, I studied intimate and marital communication. I’ve been deep in this work—death and love—for years. And something I used to share with my classmates 22 years ago came back to me the moment she told her story.
There’s a belief—an old one—that if men are lucky, they get three great loves in their lifetime:
The one they meet when they’re young.
The one they marry.
The one who sits at the deathbed.
Sometimes those three are different people.
Sometimes, if they’re really lucky, they’re the same woman.
I told her, “You’re his deathbed bride.”
And not because he’s dying anytime soon. But because she’s become the one who stays. Who does the hard, unsexy work of loving someone while watching them change. Not away from her—but into a version that can’t do everything he once could.
And I thought about how, if we are lucky, we will get to be someone’s hospice nurse and their lover. Just like we once got to be their wildness and their sanctuary. That’s a sacred role. A holy one. But it can also be exhausting.
She’s not leaving him. That was clear. She’s honored to be in this role. That was also clear.
But she wants balance. And I get it.
So here’s what I told her—from one single person to a devoted wife who’s standing on the edge of caregiver fatigue:
Maybe it’s time to bring back some of those old rituals—not because she’s forgotten who she is, but because sometimes care can swallow up everything else. Five minutes dancing in the kitchen while dinner simmers. Lingerie or his old, XL sweats that makes her feel good, not because she’s trying to seduce him, but because she deserves to feel like the woman he fell for. Taking pictures together—not just medical records and appointment notes, but goofy ones, sweet ones, ones that remind them both that they’re still in love, even if the pace has changed.
I reminded her she’s not meant to do it all alone. There’s no prize for martyrdom—just burnout, and eventually resentment. Bring in help. A home aide a few days a week if needed. Grocery delivery. That one kind neighbor who’s always asking if you need anything—say yes for once. You’re still showing up for him, but you’re also showing up for you, and that’s just as holy.
And this part is key: carve out joy that belongs only to you. Go to the farmers market on Saturday mornings alone. Start that book club. Go see Sinners again in the theaters and order the large popcorn. When every part of your day is wrapped around someone else’s body and needs and prescriptions, you can start to forget that your body has needs, too. Let something remind you that you're still very much alive.
Then, talk to him. Not with blame. Not with shame. Just honesty. Tell him what you told me: that some days you feel more like his nurse than his wife, and you miss what you two used to be. That kind of truth can create new intimacy, the kind that builds in the cracks when everything else starts to wear thin. He might feel it too and just not have the language. Say it for both of you.
And I imagine—though he might not say it—that he probably feels more like a patient than a husband some days, too. When your mornings start with blood pressure checks and your nights end with someone rubbing ointment on your aching joints, it’s hard to feel like the man who once planned surprise trips and whispered slick things over dinner. That shift in identity—his and hers—might be part of what’s dulled the spark. Not because the love is gone, but because it’s been buried under pill bottles, orthopedic pillows, and the quiet grief of realizing your body isn’t what it used to be. And when two people start seeing each other more through the lens of need than desire, it makes sense that the excitement slows down. But it doesn’t mean it can’t return in a new form.
And maybe—just maybe—let the romance look different now. It’s not sex on the middle of the dinner table at the Vogue party or jet-setting weekends to Costa Rica anymore. It might be the way he holds your hand when he wakes from a nap. The love note you leave on the bathroom mirror. The way you lay in bed together in silence, knowing what the other needs without saying it. Intimacy doesn’t die when the body slows. It just asks you to meet it in a different place.
None of it is easy. But none of it means the love is gone. It just means it’s changing. And love, when it’s real, is built for that.
It was a lot to write back, but she read all that and said, “Thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that I’m not wrong for feeling this way.”
And she’s not.
Being someone’s deathbed bride (and I’m using “bride” is a non-gender specific way here) doesn’t mean the relationship is dying. It means the stakes are higher, the love is deeper, and the role requires more of you.
But it doesn’t mean you disappear.
You’re still you.
Still a partner.
Still deserving of romance, of rest, of joy, of being held.
You don’t have to choose between being the hospice nurse and the partner.
You can be both.
You already are.