What We Do for Love

A Story and Four Steps to Getting Organized for the Unexpected

Welcome! I’m Dr. Jillian, a physician leader, mom, and coach who is on a mission to help other high achieving professionals and recovering perfectionists live less stressed, more satisfying lives. This week’s post is a personal essay followed by some practical advice. If the full post doesn’t show up in your e-mail, come over to the webpage or Substack App to see the whole thing. Subscribe here to get future posts straight to your inbox:

Photo by Marah Bashir on Unsplash

CW: Death of a parent, grief

Nineteen days after my dad died, I found his will.

It didn’t take me that long to find it once I actually started to look. My dad was the kind of person who had his papers in order, contained in matching manila envelopes with his tidy writing on the front. It had taken so long because I’d had to work up the nerve to go looking for it.

My dad died ten days before Christmas in 2024 after an illness that came out of nowhere. Neither one of us had been prepared. I tried to say everything I’d wanted to say to him on the day that he died, but I imagine there were a lot of things that I left unsaid. All he’d been able to do was nod slightly, but I didn’t have to wonder what he’d say. He was the best kind of person who had been telling me my whole life.

For the first week after his death, I was nearly catatonic, save for the trip that I had to make to the funeral home. Otherwise, I drifted along aimlessly in a fog of grief, present physically with those around me but not mentally. If not for the stream of food that arrived at our house from generous friends and family, I imagine we would’ve existed solely on dino nuggets and chips.

On the eighth day, I returned to work, forced to come back into the hospital through the same doors I had exited on the night that he died. There were shadows of that time lurking all around the halls. And I still had the clothes he’d worn to the hospital in my car. In fact, though it has been nearly three months since that time, I still do. It has been much harder than anticipated to move them.

After a few more days of work and several more of being nearly catatonic again, I finally went looking for the paperwork I’d need to bring with me to the lawyer’s office. In spite of all of my dad’s organization, we’d still be heading for probate.

As I entered my dad’s room, his absence hit me like a freight train. It was the last place he’d been before the ambulance brought him to the hospital. As a child, I used to rummage around his room to steal a shirt or some of his socks. This time, he wouldn’t be coming to chide me good-naturedly for taking his things. His things were now my things. And they were scattered around his room, in the process of being packed to move from this house into his new house.

I sat down on the floor next to a bag with envelopes peeking out of it, sure that this was what I’d come for but not quite ready to look at what was inside. I sat staring at it for a while, wishing to delay the inevitable for a bit longer. Eventually, I channeled my dad’s practicality, set my emotions aside, and got to work.

I flipped through the envelopes until I came to one labeled “Will.” A sense of relief and dread washed over me, glad to find it but still wishing to avoid the reality of what needing it meant. In the envelope was his original will, two copies, a poem, and his advanced directive documents including medical power of attorney and a living will.

While tears began to fall, I read the poem:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain;

I am the gentle autumn’s rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there; I did not die.”

-Author Unknown

The poem had made me cry, but it was the living will that made me sob.

I hadn’t known that it existed while my dad was in the hospital. Instead, I’d tried to make decisions for him based on my knowledge of who he was and how he’d want to live his life in the future.

We hadn’t ever discussed all of the decisions that I had to make prior to him getting sick. So, during a moment when he was a bit more awake, I frantically rattled off questions to him in order to verify his wishes. Unable to speak due to the breathing tube in his mouth, he simply nodded his agreement to each one.

In spite of this, for nineteen days I’d been questioning my decision to let him go. Had I really gotten it right? Could he actually understand what I was saying during his time in the hospital?

Reading his living will, I knew I’d been right. As my last gift to him, I had followed these wishes until the end. It was an act of love for him that had irreversibly broken my own heart.

Over the years, I have watched a lot of people continue hospital care long past what their loved ones would have wanted.

They seem afraid to let go or to stop, worried that turning off the machines will mean that they are killing their loved one. In my role as physician, I have always said that turning off machines simply means allowing the natural process of death to happen. And now I know this to be true for my own situation.

Honoring the final wishes of a loved one is the ultimate gift to them. It puts their wishes above yours, and it is the ultimate act of love.

Another act of love is to have these conversations with your loved ones prior to you (or them) getting ill and getting your paperwork (advanced directives) in order.

This way, you and your loved ones are not left guessing when the time inevitably comes.

Here are four steps that you can take in order to do this in your own life:

Step 1: Start the Conversation Early

• Choose a calm, unpressured time to bring up the topic, such as during a family dinner or after a routing medical checkup.

• Use a personal story, like a friend’s experience or your own, to introduce the idea naturally.

  • Feel free to use my experience with my dad’s illness as a jumping off point to show that life events often happen unexpectedly.

• Ask open-ended questions like: “Have you thought about what kind of care you’d want if you got really sick?” or “How do you feel about life support or resuscitation?”

  • My dad originally said that he wouldn’t want a breathing tube but was willing to have one temporarily if there was a chance he could get better. This was a discussion that we had to have in the moment. So, know that these documents will not be able to take every situation into account. But the more transparent you can be, the easier it will be when the time comes.

• Acknowledge that it’s a difficult topic but emphasize that knowing their wishes will help you honor them when the time comes.

Step 2: Document Your/Your Loved One’s Wishes Clearly

• Complete an advance directive (living will) and name a healthcare proxy (medical power of attorney) to make decisions if you or your loved one are unable to.

  • There are a lot of free resources out there to help you:

    • The Five Wishes project has forms and conversation guides for getting started

    • Here are a few resources from Michigan, but each state (or country) may have their own:

      • Advanced directives

      • Advance Directives: Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care

• Write down details beyond medical interventions—preferences for where you/your loved one would like to be cared for (home vs. hospital vs. care facility), any spiritual or cultural traditions, and who should be involved in your/your loved one’s care.

• If your loved one resists having this conversation, frame it as a way to reduce stress for loved ones, not just about death but about control and dignity in medical decisions.

Step 3: Organize Key Documents and Contacts

• Create a "When the Time Comes" folder (physical or digital) that includes:

  • Advance directive and healthcare proxy forms

  • Will and financial power of attorney

  • Life insurance policies

  • List of and passwords to important accounts

  • Contact list of doctors, attorneys, and key family members

• Use secure but accessible storage, like a fireproof safe or a password-protected document, and ensure at least one trusted person knows where it is and how to access it.

• Consider adding personal instructions—letters to loved ones, music for a memorial, or specific wishes for how you/your loved one want to be remembered.

Step 4: Keep the Conversation Going

• Revisit the discussion every few years or after major life changes (a new diagnosis, a move, the death of a close friend).

  • This was where my dad’s organization broke down. He hadn’t had the opportunity to update his documents after his move in 2023, so we were required to move forward with probate in order to have access to his estate.

  • Work with a lawyer to organize your assets into a trust in order to avoid having to go through probate.

• Normalize these conversations so they don’t feel like a one-time, high stakes talk.

• If family members have different opinions, focus on the person's stated wishes, not personal preferences.

• Offer to lead by example—complete your own advance directive and share your decisions with your loved ones.

By following these steps, you’ll be able to focus on what truly matters at the end-of-life.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this in the comments.