When Hospice Doesn’t Come: A Love Story and a Failure

“Dying should never be an administrative error. It should be a sacred passage, held with dignity, presence, and love.” — Mary Coughlin

Three days before my brother Billy died, he and his wife Dee made the profoundly difficult and courageous decision to accept hospice care.

They were told someone would come.
They were told oxygen would be delivered.
They were told support was in place.

But no one came.

No oxygen. No nurse. No call.

So Dee — Billy’s devoted wife, who had been caring for him with such strength and tenderness — had to drive him to the hospital herself just so he could breathe.

Thankfully, they met a kind nurse who recognized what had happened and told them plainly:

“Someone dropped the ball.”

He made calls. He set things in motion. They returned home. Dee believed help would now be there.

But the next morning, Billy began to die.

In her arms.
At home.
Alone.

Still, no hospice. No nurse. No comfort.

Dee called the number she’d been given. The response?

“Oh… his intake is scheduled for later today.”
“No one is available right now.”
“Our nurse has child care needs.”
“Maybe… you should take him to the hospital.”

Let that sink in:
As my brother was actively dying in his wife’s arms, the system told her to put him in the car and bring him to the hospital.

Instead, Dee called the police.

Because that’s what she was left with.
Not dignity.
Not presence.
Not the sacred care that hospice is supposed to offer.

I want to be clear: I know there are countless hospice workers who show up every day with courage, heart, and fierce compassion. I honor them.

But this story — Billy’s story — is also real. And we cannot keep brushing stories like his under the rug, calling them “exceptions,” or blaming individual staff while ignoring the systems that continue to fail people in their most vulnerable moments.

This is not just a breakdown.
It’s a betrayal.

Of trust.
Of dignity.
Of care.
Of love.

And my family will carry it forever.

So I share this not only to honor my brother, but to say this:

When we say “end-of-life care,” we must mean care. Not confusion. Not chaos. Not abandonment.

Every human deserves to die in peace, not bureaucracy.
To be held with reverence, not red tape.
To be seen and responded to, not rescheduled.

Billy deserved better. Dee deserved better.
And so does every single person at the edge of life — and the ones who love them.

We can — we must — do better.

I feel so empty,

Mary