Author’s Note
What you’re about to read isn’t my typical blog post. It’s a living journal—written in real time as I walked through the sacred and heartbreaking final days of my father’s life.
Each memory, each reflection, each word came to me in quiet moments at his bedside… during pauses in his breathing, during waves of sorrow, during flashes of gratitude so intense they left me breathless. Writing became my anchor. My prayer. My way of staying close while beginning to let go.
This is not a polished goodbye. It’s raw. It’s layered. It’s messy. It’s real. It is the story of a daughter losing her father—and holding onto everything she possibly can as she does.
This is Dreamland.
And I wrote it for him.
There’s no textbook for this. No amount of training prepares you for what it means to be both the Nurse and the daughter when the man who once taught you how to ride a bike, to dance barefoot in the living room, to be strong—is now declining before your eyes. And you’re the one explaining the signs to your own mother. She looks to me as the Nurse, the one who knows what to do. But I’m also her daughter. And his daughter. And the little girl in me still sees him as the strong, steady presence he's always been. Breaking that illusion for her—and for myself—was gut-wrenching.
This is the heartbreakingly beautiful and sacred space of hospice. And this time, it’s not just my profession. It’s my family. It’s my daddy.
As a Hospice Nurse, I’ve walked countless families through the tender process of letting go. I’ve explained what to expect, comforted them as their loved ones began the slow transition from this world to the next. I’ve been the calm in the storm, the guide, the teacher.
But now I’m all those things and the daughter. I’m the one everyone looks to for answers, for strength, for reassurance. And inside? I’m just a little girl watching her dad slip away—slowly, and far too soon.
Two years ago, I went through this with my husband. He was on hospice. His decline was fast and sharp. That loss broke something open in me—and now, watching my dad decline, it all comes rushing back.
There are moments when I feel like I’m reliving that pain all over again. But I keep showing up, because that’s what love demands. Even when it hurts.
When you’ve already experienced loss so intimately, you carry that imprint with you. It colors the way you see things. It adds layers to the pain, but also to the compassion. I know what’s coming—not just clinically, but spiritually. I know the rhythm of this goodbye.
I see the signs. I know what they mean. He leans more to the right now. He’s losing his appetite. He’s quieter. His eyes sometimes seem far away, like he’s already somewhere else. These are the changes I’ve taught families to recognize. But this time, I’m explaining it to my mother, while trying to keep my own voice from cracking.
It’s surreal—being in this role and also in this grief. I can’t take off the nurse hat. I can’t stop analyzing and observing. But I also can’t stop feeling.
I try to explain to my mom what the changes mean—why he’s sleeping more, why his appetite is fading, why he’s beginning to lean and lose balance. I see her fighting the truth with everything she has, just like I did not long ago. And I want to shield her from it. But I also know that the most loving thing I can do is help her face it, gently and truthfully.
It’s an impossible balance—being the nurse and the daughter, the teacher and the griever. But this is the paradox of our calling, isn’t it? We give so much of ourselves to our patients and their families, and then we’re asked to give even more when it’s our own.
There is no manual for how to navigate these dual roles. Just grace. And presence. And the quiet reminder that we’ve done this before, and we will do it again—not because it gets easier, but because we understand how important it is.
To anyone walking through something similar: I see you. You are not alone. The pain is real, the love is deep, and the work—both professional and personal—is sacred.
This is the kind of heartbreak that reshapes you. But it also refines you. It brings you face-to-face with what matters most. And if you let it, it can open your heart in ways you never imagined.
As I’m walking this journey, I have been pouring memories into this blog. It's all I can do. It helps. It heals.
I must have been about six years old the year it happened—the year I didn’t get a trophy at my dance recital. I had gotten one in previous years, and I had come to expect it with that innocent kind of certainty kids have. But this time? Nothing. No shiny gold plastic to hold up proudly. Just disappointment swelling in my chest and tears I tried so hard not to let fall.
My dad saw it. He didn’t say much at first, just watched me quietly. And then he did something I’ll never forget.
He was working as a welder at the time—his hands always smelled like metal and hard work. And sometime later that week, he came home with a gift made entirely from scraps and heart: a homemade trophy.
It was crafted from two blocks of wood, with a small metal cup welded to the top and a little engraved plate at the base that read, Tiny Dancer.
That trophy meant more to me than any recital award ever could. Because it didn’t come from a ceremony or a judge’s score. It came from my father’s hands. It said, I see you. I’m proud of you. You’re enough.
I kept that trophy for years. And even if it’s long gone now, I can still picture it perfectly in my mind. Because sometimes, love looks like a glittering cup held together with welds and wood glue. Sometimes, it looks like a dad who refuses to let his daughter feel like she’s anything less than extraordinary.
My dad, if you didn't know, was a singer-songwriter and guitarist...and also the reason we would eventually all wind up down here in Tennessee!
My father had a dream. He was a gifted songwriter—a true artist with a soul that bled music. He could take pain and turn it into poetry, stringing melodies together with the kind of raw beauty you don’t learn; you’re just born with it. But like many dreamers, he never quite “made it.” For him, and for me, that was always a source of heartbreak.
He carried that longing with him, and I carried the weight of his absence during some of my most formative years. He was in and out of my life, and that instability left scars I didn’t know how to name for a long time. I held on to resentment, tucked it away behind my drive to be strong, to be independent, to prove I didn’t need what I had missed.
But time has a way of softening what used to sting. Somewhere along the way, I let it go. I saw the man behind the missed years—the man who did show me something invaluable. My father, with all his imperfections, was a fighter. He stood for what he believed in, even when the world didn’t listen. And maybe that’s where I got it from—the fire in my belly, the unshakable will to speak up, to advocate, to build something meaningful out of my own pain.
I hadn't heard this song in years, but I've never been able to listen to it without crying. I cry, because the memories of these days crush me in ways I can't explain, yet comfort me in ways that are beyond my understanding.
I'm really proud of my dad and the way he chased down his dreams, win or lose...and no matter what, this will forever be my favorite song, for so many reasons. I played it for him, right before he passed. I told him how proud I was of him. Would you help me honor my dad today by listening to it?
I love my dad. And I’ll carry his music in my heart forever, even if the world never hears the songs he wrote.
If you’re wondering where I get my fire from… let’s just say I come by it honestly.
In the spring and summer of 1981, my family and our neighbors in East Boston, Massachussetts became part of a defining moment in local history—a grassroots movement led by everyday people who refused to let their community be abandoned.
When then-Mayor Kevin White made devastating budget cuts that threatened to shut down all but one fire station in East Boston—and closed down our local Police Station 7—residents didn’t just grumble and accept it. They fought back. For 55 straight days and nights, our community took to the streets in protest.
They didn’t just march—they occupied. Protesters broke into the shuttered Station 7 and set up a makeshift headquarters. They gathered at the entrances of the Sumner Tunnel and the Meridian Street Bridge during rush hour to prove a vital point: emergency services couldn’t reach our community in time if they had to come from downtown Boston. Even many local police officers stood with the people—because they got it.
And we won.
Station 7 is still open to this day because ordinary citizens refused to be silent. I was there—just a little girl, but already learning what it meant to stand for something. I still remember the energy, the urgency, the pride. My family was in it, shoulder to shoulder with neighbors, fighting for the safety and dignity of our community.
It’s no surprise I ended up an advocate. I come from a long line of rabble-rousers—and proud supporters of First Responders who know that true loyalty means fighting for what’s right, not what’s easy.
The blood in my veins has always known how to resist, how to speak up, how to show up. Even then, I understood that sometimes, raising a little hell is holy work.
Before I could even say “Bruins,” I was cheering for them—diapered, wild-haired, and standing in the middle of our living room, arms raised high, yelling “SCOOOORRRRE!” at the top of my lungs.
Dad and I watched every game on Channel 38. It was our ritual. He was a hockey guy—played for years and even coached. I thought he was the coolest man alive when he laced up those skates and hit the ice. I used to sneak into his gear, oversized gloves swallowing my tiny hands, wobbling around the house in a helmet that nearly fell over my eyes. He never scolded me. He laughed. And then he’d sit me on his lap, and we’d watch together.
We loved Terry O’Reilly. He was our guy. Gritty, tough, fearless.
But nothing compared to the first time he took me to Boston Garden for a game.
The energy, the noise, the smell of popcorn and cold air—I’ll never forget it. My little hand tucked in his, eyes wide, heart pounding as we stepped into the place that, to me, felt like a cathedral. And in many ways, it was. Sacred. Unforgettable.We weren’t just watching hockey. We were building memories. Threading love through tradition, game by game, glove by glove.
Some of my most cherished memories with my father live in the glow of Christmas lights and the quiet joy of a thermos full of hot cocoa.
Every holiday season, like clockwork, he would bundle me up in a coat zipped to the chin, a scarf that wrapped twice around, and mittens I could barely move in. Then, with a sparkle in his eye and childlike excitement in his voice, he’d say, “Come on, Cupcake—let’s go see the lights.”
We’d jump in the car—just the two of us—and head out on a slow, meandering drive through neighborhoods lit up like storybooks. He knew all the best streets. The ones with houses that went all-out: reindeer on rooftops, blinking icicles, snowmen that waved. I’d press my face against the cold window, mesmerized, while he sipped his coffee and smiled at my awe.
But my favorite part? He always made hot cocoa—for me—in a real thermos, The kind that screwed open with a clink and poured into a tiny silver cup. And he never skimped on the mini marshmallows! We’d park somewhere quiet to sip and talk. Just me and Daddy, in the glow of Christmas magic.
Sometimes he’d take me all the way into downtown Boston. The city was alive in December—busy shoppers, Salvation Army bells, store windows sparkling with toy trains and twinkle lights. He’d point things out with pride, making sure I didn’t miss a single detail. He loved the hustle and bustle of the season, and even more than that, he loved sharing it with me.
I didn’t know then how rare and precious those moments would become. How they would stay with me, tucked in the corners of my heart like ornaments carefully wrapped and placed in storage, waiting to be revisited when I needed them most.
Now, as I sit beside him in a quiet room, watching the twinkle fade from his eyes, I hold tightly to those memories. Of a man who gave me the gift of wonder. Of warmth. Of hot cocoa on a cold night. And of love that still lights up my soul.
It wasn’t always grand gestures with my dad. It was the simple, everyday moments that etched themselves into my soul—the ones I didn’t even realize were sacred at the time.
He used to take me to the movies. Just the two of us. I’d get to pick the film and the candy, and I always felt so grown up sitting beside him in the theater, my little legs swinging from the seat, my hand tucked into his as the previews rolled. I didn’t know then how much I’d miss that feeling of security—the way I could lean my head on his shoulder and forget the world for a while.
He’d take me to the city yards to play baseball, tossing the ball around like I was one of the guys, cheering me on like I was the next MVP. He never cared if I struck out or missed a catch— which rarely happened, by the way! He just loved spending time with me.
And when summer came, it was off to Salisbury Beach with my friends in tow. We’d pile into the car, all of us sunburned and full of saltwater, blasting music and laughing at nothing at all. He made it fun. He made it feel like summer.
And then there was the guitar.
My dad never missed a chance to pull it out when my friends were over. He’d sit on the couch or lean against the kitchen wall and just play. And sing. Back then, I’d roll my eyes and groan. I was mortified. I’d whisper “Daaaad, stop!” while my friends looked on, amused and slightly enchanted. I thought he was being dramatic. I thought he was showing off.
Now? I would give anything to hear him do it again.
It’s funny how time changes everything. The moments that once embarrassed me are now the ones I ache for. His voice. That strum. The way he’d smile, and me being completely unaware of how cool he actually was.
Those memories? They’re home. And they’re a part of me forever.
Some of my favorite childhood memories live on the shores of Plum Island. My dad and I spent countless summer days there—salty breeze in our hair, sun on our faces, and a fishing pole in hand. He loved those quiet, salty hours, just the two of us standing at the edge of the world.
He taught me how to cast a line and wait with patience (which, if you know me, is not exactly my spiritual gift). I can still hear him gently coaching me, “Easy now... give it a flick... there you go.” And I’d watch my little bobber dance in the current like it knew something I didn’t.
There was one particular day I’ll never forget. I was sure I had something big on the line—my excitement was through the roof. I reeled and reeled, heart pounding... only to pull up one very annoyed crab waving its claws like it had something to say. My dad burst out laughing and so did I. It became our story. The Great Crab Catch of Plum Island.
He was so good at making those ordinary days feel magical. It wasn’t about catching anything. It was about being out there together, breathing in life, side by side.
Now when I close my eyes and try to find peace, I picture us there—Plum Island, sun setting, a crab in my bucket, and my dad smiling like it was the greatest catch he’d ever seen.
When I was little, daddy would sing me a lullaby he wrote - Dreamland.
I wish I could remember all the words. Time has tucked them away somewhere just out of reach, like a melody I almost catch in a dream before waking. But I remember the feeling. I remember his voice. I remember knowing—without a doubt—that the song was mine.
He sang about cotton candy clouds and streets of gold. Licorice trees. About a world so soft, so safe, it could only exist in a lullaby written by a father for his little girl.
I would curl up beside him, letting the melody wrap around me like a blanket. Even now, all these years later, I can still feel that comfort when the world feels too loud. I may not remember the verses, but I remember the love.
And maybe that’s the part that matters most.
I remember the first time my parents finally said yes to letting me take the city bus. I must’ve asked a dozen times, pleading with the full drama and desperation of a young girl craving her first real taste of independence.
Eventually, they gave in.
I was ecstatic—riding the bus with my friend, Melissa, feeling ten feet tall and completely grown-up. I probably tossed my hair a little more than usual, acting like I knew exactly what I was doing, like I belonged to the world now.
And then I saw it.
My dad’s van. Two cars behind us. Following the bus across town.
At first, I was mortified. Daaad! But now? I laugh. Because of course he followed. Of course he needed to make sure I got there safely. That’s who he was. My biggest fan and my fiercest protector—often at the exact same time.
He never stopped being my safety net, even when I thought I didn’t need one.
It’s funny how those little moments, the ones that feel embarrassing at the time, become the ones you hold dearest later. That quiet kind of love—the kind that trails a city bus just to make sure you’re okay—is the kind of love that stays with you forever.
If there’s one thing my dad never failed to be—it was my protector.
He may have been a dreamer, a musician, a man who chased sunsets with his guitar slung over his back—but when it came to me, he was all fire and steel. Whether it was a boy who got too bold or a teacher who crossed the line, Daddy didn’t just have my back—he took care of business.
I remember one teacher in particular who made me feel small, who belittled me in front of others. I came home upset, trying to hold back tears, and before I could even finish explaining what had happened, he was already standing up, grabbing his jacket. He didn’t raise his voice, but his presence said everything that needed to be said. He let him know, in no uncertain terms—this is my daughter, and you will treat her with respect.
That teacher never messed with me after that.
My dad taught me what it meant to be worth defending. And now, as an adult, I see just how powerful that was. Because when a girl knows she’s protected, when she knows her voice matters—she grows into a woman who protects others, too. Who speaks out. Who refuses to let injustice slide.
My advocacy didn’t start in nursing school. It started the moment I watched my father stand up for me. Again and again.
The truth is, it wasn’t always warm and easy between us.
As I moved into my teenage years, the relationship shifted. The same man who once bundled me up for Christmas light drives and handcrafted trophies out of wood and welds... started to drift. He wasn’t always around. And even when he was, it didn’t always feel like he was.
I carried a lot of resentment. I felt abandoned during some of the years I needed him most. I didn’t understand his choices, and I let the silence between us grow heavier than either of us knew how to break. I kept my distance. Built walls. Tried to convince myself I didn’t need what I had missed.
But beneath all that hurt lived a very simple truth: I just wanted my dad.
That pain doesn’t erase the beauty of our earlier years—it just adds weight to the love that came before. And it makes the healing that’s happened since that much more sacred. Because we did find our way back. And I learned to forgive—not just him, but the part of me that had tried so hard to stop needing him.
Love is complicated. And so is grief. But what I know now is that I love my dad fully—not because he was perfect, but because he’s mine.
Forgiveness didn’t happen in a single moment. It didn’t arrive like a lightning bolt or some grand emotional breakthrough. It came slowly—layer by layer, year by year. Quiet, unglamorous, often painful.
There were years I didn’t even realize how much I needed to forgive. I just felt the weight of it—the tension in my shoulders when we spoke, the guardedness in my heart, the ache that came with remembering what could’ve been. I told myself I was fine. I buried the longing. But grief has a way of digging things up.
And when my own son was born, something in me shifted. I started to understand how hard it is to carry dreams and responsibilities at the same time. I started to see my dad not just as the man who hurt me, but as a man who was hurting, too. Human. Flawed. Wounded in ways I may never fully know.
The truth is, I didn’t forgive him for him. I forgave him for me. Because resentment is a slow poison. Because I wanted peace. Because I wanted to love my dad in whatever time we had left—without bitterness standing in the way.
And somehow, once I let go, the love came rushing back. Unfiltered. Undeniable.
Now, when I sit beside him, I no longer see the gaps or the disappointments. I see a man who tried, who failed, who dreamed, who hurt... and who still loved me as best as he knew how.
And I let myself love him back. Freely. Fully. Without keeping score.
Because grace is not earned. It’s given. And in this sacred season, grace is what we both need most.
I was just seventeen when I became pregnant with my son. My dad was living in Tennessee by then, and my mom and I were still in Boston—navigating life, navigating tension, navigating that terrifying road between childhood and motherhood.
He didn’t come back right away, but he came back in time to be there for the birth of my son—his first and only grandchild—and when he did, something shifted. Maybe it was the weight of legacy. Maybe it was the ache of all the moments missed. But he came home. And this time, he stayed.
I watched him fall in love with my baby boy—the way he looked at him, held him, protected him. It was the kind of love that didn’t need words. The kind that made up for lost time in quiet, steady presence.
They’ve been close ever since. A bond I could never have predicted, but one I thank God for every day. My son doesn’t just have a grandfather—he has a champion. A storyteller. A man who cheers the loudest and loves the deepest.
Watching them together healed places in me I didn’t even know were still hurting. Because through loving him, my dad found his way back to loving us.
One of the quiet blessings in this sacred season has been watching my son rise with strength, tenderness, and grace I’ve never seen. He didn’t just witness his grandfather’s final days—he stood in them. Shoulder to shoulder with me, learning how to care for him, how to administer his medications, how to position him so he could rest in comfort. He was there—truly there—until the very end.
There was something profoundly beautiful about watching Anthony care for his grandfather with such gentleness. No hesitation. No fear. Just love in motion. It softened something in both of us.
And through that, something else happened too. As we walked this road together, hand in hand, many of the wounds we carry in our own relationship began to quietly mend. In the stillness. In the shared purpose. In the act of honoring the man who meant so much to us both.
He helped carry his grandfather home. And in doing so, he helped bring us home, too.
I don’t know if I’m ready for this season.
There’s something brutal about watching it all unfold in slow motion. Knowing. Anticipating. Wanting to soak in every moment while also bracing for the loss that looms like a shadow in the background.
I keep remembering all the beautiful things—Plum Island, Bruins games, Christmas cocoa, songs sung in the kitchen—and each memory brings comfort... but also ache. Because I know what they’re leading me toward. I know what’s on the other side of this.
People talk about the pain after loss, but this—this in-between space—is its own kind of sorrow. You’re still showing up. Still laughing at inside jokes. Still holding hands. But every smile feels a little fragile. Every “I love you” carries more weight.
And no matter how many people I’ve guided through this season in my role as a nurse, it’s different when it’s your dad.
The truth is—I don’t want to be ready. Because readiness feels like letting go. And I’m not there yet.
So for now, I just sit with the ache. I honor the memories as they come. And I hold tight to the time we still have, even when it breaks me wide open.
Right now, I’m sitting at my father’s bedside. The room is dimly lit, the air thick with memory and love. Worship music plays softly in the background—each note a prayer, each lyric a thread holding me together.
His breathing has changed. I hear the dreaded rattle. I know what that means. My nurse’s mind reads the signs, even as my daughter’s heart silently pleads for more time. And so, I write.
I write because that’s what I’ve always done when my heart is too full. It’s a gift I got from him. My love for words. For story. For finding healing in expression. And my son? He’s inherited it, too. Three generations bound by ink and soul.
As the hours pass, memories flood in—Plum Island crab catches, Bruins games on Channel 38, the trophy he made from scrap metal, the van that quietly followed my first bus ride. I see them all so clearly now. A mosaic of moments that shaped me.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but in this moment, I am present. I am holding the hand that once held mine. I am remembering. I am forgiving. I am loving.
And I am writing it all down—because someday, when the grief feels too heavy, I’ll return to these words. To this sacred night. To this quiet goodbye wrapped in worship and grace.
Because my father gave me stories. And now, I give them back to him.
At 2:37 a.m. on Sunday, May 11th, 2025, I held my father's hand as he took his final breath. It was just the two of us, and it was an achingly beautiful moment that I will always carry with me. I pronounced his time of death—something I've done countless times as a hospice nurse—but this time, it was different. This time, it was my daddy.
I cleaned his body. I prepared him for the funeral home. I did it with steady and sure hands, but a shattered heart, because love doesn’t stop when the heartbeat does.
It was quiet. Sacred. Surreal.
And I don’t think it’s fully hit me yet.
My father is gone.
And there will never be another man like him.
Rest now, Daddy. Your dream lives on in us—and Dreamland will always be where I find you. ✨💞💫
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About the Author:
Kimberly Overton, BSN, RN, BC-FMP, is a Registered Nurse, entrepreneur, and fierce advocate for medical freedom and informed consent. With a background in critical care and acute patient management, she bore witness to the systemic failures of a healthcare system corrupted by profit-driven protocols—protocols that led to medical murders disguised as care.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, Kimberly made the bold decision to resign from traditional bedside nursing, standing in protest against coercive mandates, the unethical use of Remdesivir, and the rollout of dangerous, ineffective COVID “vaccines.” This defining moment propelled her to establish Nurse Freedom Network, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit dedicated to empowering nurses, safeguarding patient rights, and exposing corruption within the healthcare system.
Today, she continues her mission at the bedside as a Hospice nurse, where she brings dignity, presence, and compassion to the end-of-life journey—honoring the sacred transition and advocating for comfort, truth, and informed decisions. Her experience in hospice care further reinforces the importance of understanding every medical intervention and upholding the nurse’s role as a protector of patient safety and peace.
Expanding on her mission, she launched Remnant Healthcare, providing holistic, patient-centered alternatives that honor medical autonomy, informed consent, and compassionate care. As host of Nurses Out Loud, Kimberly amplifies the movement for healthcare reform, medical freedom, and the unwavering defense of human dignity.
Originally from Boston, Massachusetts, and now residing in Hendersonville, Tennessee, her mission is to disrupt the broken system, hold the profiteers accountable, and reclaim healthcare on a foundation of truth, ethics, and respect for human life—restoring humanity to the healing profession.
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