June Bug

The fluorescent lights are blinding, and the air reeks of cleaning chemicals that smack me awake as I walk through the door. You’d think after eleven years, I would be used to it. But I’m not.

I head to my station to pick up my patient chart for the day. Same routine. Same pen. Same neatly structured clipboard. I scan the names—some home visits, some hospital rooms.

A name catches my eye.

June Bursburry. Stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

A newbie.

“Margo?” I snap around. It’s Danny, a member of the night crew. By the look in her eyes, I know nothing good is coming.

“I’m not sure if anyone has told you yet–”

I cut her off. “No one has.”

“Oh, um…Well, Tim passed last night. Around three am,” her face drops. She looks at me like a puppy with a broken leg. “I’m so sorry.”

A sour pit churns in my stomach. I try to form words, hoping I can construct a coherent sentence. But in typical Margo fashion, as I attempt vulnerability, my nurse brain takes over.

“Did you contact his family?” I ask, flat-toned.

“Oh…uh, yes. Cindy did last night.”

“Good. Good. They had a right to know…despite everything.” She stares at me, frozen in place.

“Alrighty then. Thanks for passing along that information,” I internally chuckle at my completely inappropriate choice of words. But using humour as a coping mechanism fails me today. The sour pit lingers—embedding itself into my gut.

I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out a mini black journal. Quickly, I pop it open and write down:

Tim Samuels.

Then tuck it away. Hopeful that no one witnessed my secret—and completely against policy—ritual. A quiet reminder of what always comes.

As much as my body wants to pause for a moment. To feel it all. To let it flood me. I can’t. So, like the journal, I'll tuck them away, saving them for a later date. The day must go on. I must keep moving forward.

I scour the list, searching for the perfect starting point.

Sandy Peters.

Each shift follows the same rotation of end of life patients. But sometimes, someone new throws me off centre.

This week it’s June.

I spend the morning visiting my hospital patients, then transition into my home visits. Nothing too exciting, just nurse duties. Occasionally, I do get to play someone's loved one. A weirdly heartwarming experience.

It’s 2:00 o’clock and I’ve saved June for last.

A protocol I follow for most new patients. It gives me time to read them. To study their needs and wants.

I pull into the driveway of 6 Sandy Lane.

A pale yellow house on the corner, with a robin’s egg blue door. The house looks loved, in need of some work, but certainly loved.

I walk up to the door and knock three times.

No response.

I knock once more, this time pressing my ear up against the door. A faint, but sweet voice squeaks from behind it.

“Come in, dear.”

I slowly crack open the door and peek my head inside.

“Hello Mrs. Bursburry. It’s Margo, your new at-home nurse. Is it alright if I come in?” I recite from my perfected work script.

“Oh, of course!”

The house isn’t what I imagined. Flower wallpaper scales the ceiling, once vibrant colours of blue, pink, and green now faded. The rest of the walls are unrecognizable, hidden behind stacks of books. They flood the space, even pouring into the kitchen.

She’s set up in front of the television, with Downton Abbey playing quietly in the background.

She’s quite beautiful. Possibly the most beautiful older woman I have ever seen. Her hair is white, like snow, and her eyes are a sharp blue. Something about her wrinkles feels different from the others. Her chin and cheeks are still perked up. There’s no permanent frown frozen on her face, just a smile.

Permanent happiness.

“How are you today, Mrs. Bursburry?” I ask,

“I’m not that old, dear! I insist you call me June,” She scowls.

“Well alrighty, June. How are you feeling?”

She chuckles at me, as if I have asked a foolish question.

“I am good as new, fresh out of the womb!” She says throwing up her hands like a jazz dancer.

A little smirk leaks through my lips.

“Is something funny,” June asks.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all!” To my surprise I’m now smiling in full.

“You’re just…refreshing.”

She glances at me, her permanent smile now doubled in size.

For the next half hour with June, I take her vitals, check her medications, and complete the routine tasks. After a few good laughs, I say my goodbyes and head on my way.

I didn’t expect to look forward to her.

But by the third visit, I found myself lingering just a bit longer in her door.

Over the next few weeks we spent every afternoon together.

We’ve shared little tidbits of our life with one another. I've learned that she can walk, but her stubbornness holds her back.

As she says, “walking must be saved for tea time.”

And she’s learned that I’m a pushover. Just for her though. Typically I urge myself to build a wall between me and my patients, but June is different. Like a butterfly, her bright colours are hard to ignore.

This wasn’t part of the job. Affection like this. But with June, I somehow keep forgetting my golden rules: Too close. Too hurt.

This past Thursday was unforgettable. A bright, sunny day, with no cloud in sight.

June wanted to have tea outside so she could “soak up every bit of sweetness.”

And we did just that. We sat there, faces looking to the sky, basking in the goodness—letting the sun lather us in all the right ways.

“June bug. I like it.” I glance over at her. “Don’t you?”

“Oh goodness. My mother called me June Bug. I haven’t heard it in decades.” For the first time, her smile dims.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to retract. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“You didn't, dear. It’s a bittersweet thing.” A deep sigh releases from her chest, “You remind me of her. My mother.”

June takes my hand, wrapping her dainty fingers around mine. She squeezes three distinct times, then lets go. As if to say: I love you.

The sour punch that once lived in my stomach has fizzled out. In its place, warmth. My body feels light sitting in this chair. So light I should be careful, one gust of a wind and I could be whisked away.

“I’ve made up my mind. We’re staying here.” My voice stutters.

June giggles, “Whatever will make you happy.”

Hours pass, but we stay there. Frozen in time. Just as I asked.

The next day brings the opposite. Thunder and rain crash down, roaring like some mythological creature. It’s comedic in a way, how fast things can shift and change.

At 6:00 o’clock, my phone rings.

It’s about June.

My June Bug.

She’s been rushed to the hospital by ambulance. Her neighbour found her unconscious in the garden. My stomach flips and turns with that information. That’s all they told me. That’s not enough.

The drive to the hospital is a blur. The windshield wipers thrash against the glass, trying to clear the blinding storm. If only my mind had wipers too. Maybe then, the nausea crawling from my gut wouldn’t feel so suffocating.

I argue back and forth with myself.

This is why we have the golden rules, Margo. Too close. Too hurt. You shouldn’t have caved. Look at you now.

But then another voice steps in,

Oh, but look at me now…I’ve smiled.

For the first time in years.

She did that.

Tears trickle down my face, cooling the burning in my cheeks.

I barge through the hospital doors and make my way towards the elevators, trying to hide the fact that I’m running.

Floor 3, A16.

I repeat her room number over and over again until I reach her.

In an attempt to be professional, I try to wipe the tears from my face. But they continue to flood out of me, rolling off my chin.

I step into the doorway,

“Oh, June Bug.” I place myself at the bottom of her bed.

“It’s Margo. I’m here.”

I take her hand, and squeeze it three distinct times. I love you, I whisper with the beat.

Soon the night folds into dawn, and my morning shift is near start. But this room smells different—no cleaning chemicals. Just roses. Not real ones, just the memory of them.

June is asleep, her mouth slightly open, the books she suggested sit stacked on the windowsill.

I should chart. Check vitals. Make sure my other patients took their medication. But instead, I just sit in the chair by her bed and watch the way her chest rises like it’s trying to stay here. Like her body hasn't told her soul the plan yet.

She stirs in bed, murmurs something I don’t catch. I reach out without thinking—just to touch her wrist. Lightly. As if my touch could anchor her here, just for one more night.

One more night to hug her.

To laugh until our tea gets cold.

To feel the sun on our faces.

To thank her for showing me vulnerability holds strength.

One more chance to say that breaking my rules is worth it.

Because some people—rare, rare people—are worth it.

But the universe has never cared much for our wishes, and in a matter of minutes she was gone.

They don’t tell you this about hospice work:

That for every goodbye you get to say, there are just as many you never get to.

You go in thinking the job is about letting people go. But no.

It’s about learning how to hold them. Even after they’re gone.

I reach into my pocket, and pull out the little black journal.

I flip to a blank page. My pen hovers, then lands.

June Bursburry.

My June Bug.

I close the journal softly, like tucking her in.

Tomorrow, there will be new names.

But today, I let her stay with me a little longer.