The alarm goes off at 5am. I could go back to sleep—I’m on a late shift today—but my mind is busy with all the things I need to get done. The plate of fairy bread for the class party today. The Christmas cards I haven’t finished. As always, there’s a big pile of washing and the dreaded lunch boxes to pack.

As I start my day, my mind drifts to work and the clients who have made an impression recently. It’s the time of year to reflect. The woman who was secretly determined to die in November because she didn’t want to die in December and forever leave her family with an association of grief at Christmas time. The woman who was openly determined to fight and make it to one more Christmas with her family.

It opens my eyes to how different we all are, and how opposing views and choices can be the same expression of strength, choice, and love. Both of these women were accepting their own mortality and were able to plan and make decisions that were best for them and their families. They remind me to keep things in perspective, to prioritise. Maybe the fairy bread isn’t so important.

I go about my morning and put the kettle on. I think of the elderly man I saw last month who was planning to move into a nursing home. He sat at his dining table with a cuppa and an old handwritten address book. He had bought all of his grandchildren a book for Christmas and was carefully writing out the addresses to post them. He smiled to himself as he thought of each child receiving their specially chosen storybook.

He told me, “It’s not my time for big noisy family gatherings.” At the time, I thought it was sad, that he was missing out—but he looked content.

I think of him as I sit down with my cuppa to finish the Christmas cards. Maybe he had let go of his old Christmas traditions of big family gift-giving extravaganzas around the Christmas tree and opted for something within his current abilities, something that brought him joy. He certainly didn’t look sad sitting there quietly preparing his gifts. Maybe he was embracing the chances growing old brings—expressing generosity and love in a way his ageing body would allow.

I hope he approaches his next chapter in the nursing home as a new season in his life, not a loss. I hope he continues to find joy in the moments he can.

I remember my Christmas scrubs are still in the laundry basket and wonder if there’s time to get them washed and dried before work—just as my son tiptoes into the room looking for a cuddle as he wakes up. I scoop him up and we snuggle into the couch together. No Christmas scrubs today. Navy it is.

I feel grateful for all of the people I’ve seen die and for the last hug they get from their sons. It reminds me what’s important. Palliative care can be tender and sometimes sad, but I’ve never found it depressing. It has always been my gentle reminder of priorities.