It's very shocking, I think, for people caring for the dying to

Host: The hospital corridor was silent except for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant rhythm of a heart monitor. The air carried that sterile scent — a mixture of cleaning fluid, cotton, and something heavier: finality. Outside, the night pressed against the windows, a deep indigo sky streaked with the last city lights.

Host: Jack sat slumped in a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. The coffee in the paper cup beside him had gone cold hours ago. Jeeny leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, her eyes red but dry. They had said nothing for almost an hour. The door to the ward remained closed — the threshold between what still breathes and what soon won’t.

Jeeny: (softly) “Helen Garner once wrote, ‘It’s very shocking, I think, for people caring for the dying to realise how unsaintly they feel, how much anger is mixed up with their grief. In fact, often I think the anger that they feel is a form of grief; it’s a kind of raging against what’s happening.’”

Jack: (lifting his head) “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Host: His voice was hoarse, stripped of pretense. He stared at the floor, at the pattern of grey tiles under harsh white light.

Jeeny: “You’re angry.”

Jack: “I’m everything but calm. And I hate that. You’re supposed to be graceful, right? When someone’s dying. Kind. Composed. I feel like… I’m coming apart.”

Jeeny: “That’s what she meant — that feeling doesn’t make you cruel. It makes you human.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Funny how that word’s supposed to comfort us.”

Host: A nurse passed quietly, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor, her eyes flicking toward them — professional compassion, the kind learned through repetition.

Jeeny: “You loved him. Of course you’re angry.”

Jack: “But at what? Him? God? The doctors? The world?”

Jeeny: “Maybe all of it.”

Host: Jack leaned back against the wall, hands covering his face again. The light from the hallway lamp drew sharp lines across his knuckles — pale, trembling, too alive.

Jack: “You know what the worst part is? I don’t even know what I’d say if I went in there right now. I keep thinking there’s some final, meaningful thing I should say. Something cinematic. But all I want to do is shout at him for leaving.”

Jeeny: “Then shout. Maybe that’s love too.”

Jack: “You think love’s supposed to sound like that?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it sounds like begging. Sometimes it sounds like rage. Love isn’t tidy when death’s in the room.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — loud, mechanical, indifferent. Each second cut through the silence like a small reminder of what time keeps taking.

Jack: “When my mother died, I didn’t cry. Not for days. People thought I was strong. But I wasn’t strong. I was furious. I couldn’t stand the sound of anyone being gentle with me. It felt like lying.”

Jeeny: “Because they were pretending grief was calm.”

Jack: “Exactly. Like death’s supposed to make us wise, not raw.”

Jeeny: “But wisdom comes later — after the rage burns through.”

Host: She sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Her hand found his, tentative at first, then firm.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to be a saint to sit with the dying. You just have to stay.”

Jack: “What if staying makes it worse?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you didn’t run.”

Host: The door to the ward creaked open slightly as a nurse stepped out, murmuring something about more time, then closed it again. The sound was small, but it felt immense.

Jack: “You know, everyone talks about closure. Like death is some equation we can solve if we sit through it long enough. But I don’t think closure exists. I think we just… learn to carry the hole.”

Jeeny: “That’s grief. It never fills, but it softens.”

Jack: “How do you know?”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve carried one too.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly, a pulse through the sterile air. Jack stared at the closed door — the line between before and after.

Jack: “He wasn’t perfect. We barely spoke for years. Now I sit here and feel like the only things left are the things we never said.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe say them now.”

Jack: “To who? He can’t hear me.”

Jeeny: “Then say them for yourself. That’s what forgiveness really is — talking to the silence.”

Host: Her words lingered. Jack closed his eyes. The hum of the machines inside the ward could just be heard through the door — a steady, fragile rhythm.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I don’t want to let go of the anger. It’s all that’s keeping me connected.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strange. That’s love’s last disguise.”

Jack: (quietly) “So I’m supposed to let it hurt?”

Jeeny: “You’re supposed to let it mean something.”

Host: The corridor stretched endlessly — pale walls, sterile light, the architecture of waiting. Outside, the rain had started, pattering softly against the windowpane.

Jack: “When this is over, when the machines stop — what then?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll learn to live in pieces. And slowly, those pieces will start to fit again. Not the same, but enough.”

Jack: “And the rage?”

Jeeny: “It will turn into remembering.”

Host: The door opened again. A doctor stepped out, face drawn, voice low, clinical, practiced. Jack didn’t hear every word — just enough to understand.

Host: Jeeny reached for his hand again, but this time, he was already holding hers. His eyes were wet now, though his expression wasn’t broken — just emptied of resistance.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I thought when it happened, I’d feel relief. But I just feel… hollow.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning of grief. It moves slow — first hollow, then heavy.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “And then one day you look up, and the anger’s gone. But the love stays.”

Host: He nodded, slowly. The light above them dimmed slightly, a kind of quiet respect that only hospitals seem to know how to offer.

Host: They stood — two silhouettes against the soft white glow, side by side. The hallway was the same, but everything in them had shifted, however slightly.

Host: As they turned toward the ward door, the rain outside softened to a whisper.

Host: And in that small, raw moment — with the world still between breaths — Helen Garner’s words found their echo: that anger and grief are not opposites, but twins. That to rage is not to blaspheme love, but to prove it was real.

Host: Because caring for the dying isn’t about sainthood. It’s about being human enough to feel everything — the fury, the sorrow, the ache — and still choose to stay beside them, trembling but true, until the last light goes out.