Before my dad died, he was put on the maternity floor for hospice. The nurses took such good care of us, and it was quiet and calm.

Man holding newborn baby — The author's dad died on the maternity floor of the hospital.
Courtesy of the author

My dad died in August of 2024 after a fall.
The hospital put him on the maternity floor for hospice care.
The experience was calm and helped me process the loss.

Last summer, I sat in the backseat as my car hurtled down the highway in the middle of the night. I looked at the clock: 1:27 a.m. I closed my eyes and focused on my breath for what felt like an eternity, then looked back at the dashboard lights: 1:29.

I thought about the last time I'd been on the highway in the early morning hours. It was six years before when I was in labor with my second child. I'd barely made it to the hospital, arriving 12 minutes before she was born. In the car, I focused on my breathing, knowing that something very difficult was waiting for me at the end of the ride, and the only way out was through.

Now, I was again speeding toward a hospital, but for an entirely different reason. My dad was dying. Earlier that night, he had fallen and never regained consciousness. Like the night I was in labor, I was terrified yet slightly relieved. I knew I had no choice but to move through the pain — but I was surprised to learn exactly where that would happen.

In the ER, I chose to move my dad to hospice care

My dad had been very sick for more than a decade. He was only 61, but his dementia and ever-expanding list of physical ailments meant he seemed much older. Throughout his many hospitalizations, I worried we would go on this way forever, with him trapped in a mind and body that no longer matched his spirit. Like in late pregnancy, it was hard to imagine the journey would ever end.

Yet that night, in the emergency room, the doctors were very clear: we had reached transition. Doctors from the intensive care unit and hospice answered questions from me, my siblings, and my mom. I gave the answer that I had discussed with my dad many times — no more intensive interventions.

"We'll move him to a room upstairs," the nurse said, "and you can be there as long as you need."

A nurse moved my dad from the ER to the maternity floor

We had just long enough to grab a vending machine snack before she reappeared, telling us to follow her. "It's a locked ward," she explained. My dad was in psychiatric hospitals many times, so we all chuckled half-heartedly at the idea of a locked ward. Then I saw where we were really headed: the maternity floor.

I had no idea what a hospice unit would look like. The nurse explained that the hospital felt the maternity ward was the best place for end-of-life care. The floor has large rooms for families, and the staff is experienced in navigating intense life events. Many of the nurses have bereavement training to help with pregnancy loss and stillbirths. The healthcare providers on this floor knew there was no timeline for how long nature would take.

My mind immediately flashed to that moment on the drive in when I'd thought about the parallels between the night I gave birth, and the night I learned my dad was dying. I had goosebumps; I wasn't the only one who saw the similarities. I knew my dad, who had a strong spiritual life, would love the feeling of coming full circle, his life ending when just down the hall, a new life began.

I would love to see other hospitals use this approach

For the next 48 hours, my siblings and I took turns sleeping in two spacious recliners typically reserved for birth partners. We walked the halls and let the nurses nourish us with tea and saltine crackers. There were no beeping monitors or too-bright fluorescent lights, just a calm waiting and the occasional chime that told us a baby had been born.

Soon after my dad took his last breaths, his sister came to the hospital for one last kiss. "Make sure you tell her we're on the maternity floor," I told my brother. "She's going to be confused." A nurse who overheard laughed.

No one expects life to end on the maternity floor, but I know this hospital was onto something. A nurse told me that once a baby was born at almost the exact moment a hospice patient died. Both families cried when they realized the two shared a name.

Death, however painful, is part of life. Having a hospital make dedicated space for that helped me process my dad's death and gave me something to smile at along the way.

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