Two Sides of Hope

      

By Cathy Yuhas, RN, CEOLD

Cathy Yuhas, RN, CEOLD THE TWO SIDES OF HOPE   THE GIFTS OF HOPE: WHAT IT OFFERS US IN THE FACE OF DYING When we think about hope, especially at the end of life, we often see it as a kind of wishful thinking—a fragile thing that disappears when a prognosis is terminal. But hope is much stronger than that. It doesn’t fade away when a cure is no longer possible. Instead, it changes. It softens, deepens, and gives us many ways to hold on—not to an outcome, but to what makes life meaningful. Hope gives us something to hold onto. Even in the darkest moments, it offers a thread—however thin—that connects us to the next moment. I’ve seen caregivers, blurry-eyed and sleep-deprived, whisper to themselves, “Maybe today will be better.” I’ve heard patients, their voices weak, say, “I just want to make it to my granddaughter’s graduation.” Hope gives them a reason to wake, to reach, to try again. It also makes space for tomorrow. Not always the literal next day, but the possibility of what tomorrow may bring—a laugh, a visit, a moment of peace. Families often plan small, meaningful experiences during the process of dying, such as a final picnic on the porch, one last photo session, or writing letters to loved ones. I once cared for a woman who decorated her hospice room with fall leaves in August, quietly hoping to see her favorite season one last time. Hope is a deeply human trait. It shows itself in small gestures: the friend who brings soup even though they don’t know what to say; the spouse who keeps fluffing pillows or playing music their partner loves. These are acts of hope—small declarations that say, “You still matter.” Importantly, hope offers peace, not promises. It doesn’t guarantee that things will turn out a certain way. It simply creates space to rest in the unknown without fear. A patient may find peace knowing they have the option of pain relief or spiritual comfort, even when the outcome is known. A loved one might whisper, “You can let go now,” not because they’ve given up, but because peace has taken the place of panic. Hope helps us cope. It’s the belief that maybe there will be a good night’s sleep, that the next nurse will be kind, or that someone will show up and sit with you in silence. Some people keep a journal with affirmations, reminders like “One moment at a time” or “This too is sacred.” These small hopes help carry us through. And as the reality of dying sets in, hope evolves. It shifts from hoping for a cure to hoping for a good death. It becomes about comfort, clarity, and connection. I’ve seen people hope to reconcile with an estranged loved one or simply to be remembered well. That evolution isn’t a loss—it’s a deepening. Hope also guides decisions. It clarifies what matters most. I’ve watched families choose hospice not because they’ve lost hope, but because their hope has shifted—they now hope for presence, dignity, and comfort. Completing an advance directive is another act of hope: a hope that your loved ones won’t have to guess what you wanted. Finally, hope sparks conversations. It lets people ask: “What are you still hoping for?” I’ve heard families say, “We know what’s coming, but we’re going to fill these next days with stories, music, and love.” These conversations are sacred. They’re grounded in reality—but nourished by hope. Hope isn’t false comfort. It’s not pretending everything will be okay. It’s the behind-the-scenes voice that says, “Even now, there is beauty. Even now, there is meaning.” In the work of dying—and in the work of loving someone who is dying—hope is one of the greatest gifts we have.   HOPE IS POWERFUL It can carry us through tough days, help us find meaning during uncertain moments, and make space for beauty, even at life's end. But like anything deeply human, hope has its complexities. When used wisely, it upholds dignity and peace. However, when held too rigidly, it can cause unnecessary suffering, emotional avoidance, or missed chances for connection. There is so much good that hope offers. It provides us with something to hold onto during moments of fear or exhaustion. It opens the heart to the possibility of comfort, reconciliation, or presence—even when a cure is no longer possible. In this way, hope is gentle. It evolves with the circumstances. A person may start by hoping for more time, and eventually hope for peace, forgiveness, or simply one more meaningful conversation. When rooted, hope helps people face death with clarity and often with unexpected grace. But hope can also act as a barrier. It becomes harmful when it shifts into denial—when someone refuses to accept a terminal prognosis and instead clings to treatments that have no benefit. This kind of false hope can take away valuable time from families to say goodbye, complete necessary paperwork, or just be together. It might even prevent someone from receiving hospice care early enough to truly benefit from it. Sometimes, people feel pressured to “stay positive” for others, using hope as a mask. But when someone who is dying needs to talk about fear, loss, or letting go, unexamined hope can silence them. “Don’t give up hope!” sounds kind, but it can unintentionally shut down deeper conversations that need to happen. It may also exhaust caregivers who are pouring themselves into a sort of hope that is no longer realistic—or fair. This doesn’t mean we give up hope. It means we allow it to grow. True hope is sincere. It creates space for honesty and kindness simultaneously. It shifts from hoping for a miracle to hoping for presence. From wishing for more time to hoping that the time we have left is purposeful. When someone is dying or when we’re walking with them, it’s helpful to pause and ask: “What are we really hoping for now?” If the answer is connection, peace, or dignity—then hope is doing its best work. However, if the answer reveals avoidance, fear, or a reluctance to face the truth, it may be time to let hope evolve. Hope is not the opposite of reality—it’s how we find light within it. The invitation is not to let go of hope, but to hold it in a way that serves life as it is, not just as we wish it could be.   Cathy J. Yuhas – RN, Certified Death Doula, Founder of Dying Matters, LLC With over 36 years of experience as a registered nurse and a certified death doula, Cathy has dedicated her career to changing the way we approach death, dying, and end-of-life care. As the founder of Dying Matters, LLC, she educates, supports, and guides individuals and families through one of life’s most profound transitions. Through her compassionate presence and expertise, Cathy empowers people to make informed, meaningful choices that honor their values and wishes at the end of life. As an educator and advocate, Cathy is now sharing her insights with a broader audience through her new book, Walking Each Other Home: Guiding Caregivers and Community Through the Sacred Passage of Death. Using storytelling, practical wisdom, and heartfelt guidance, she provides a roadmap for navigating end-of-life with dignity, clarity, and peace.