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If you鈥檝e escorted a loved one through hospice, or through their last days at an intensive care unit, you know about making decisions related to palliative care. That鈥檚 the shift between hanging onto the hope he or she will come home, and advising the medical staff to focus on the person鈥檚 comfort.

For those who are responsible for making that call on behalf of someone you love dearly, it鈥檚 a heart-breaking burden that you make out of love, and one that you carry with you beyond the doors of the facility once the end has arrived.

It is then that the reality of the loss begins to carve a hole in those left to cherish the loved one who is now gone, but for the memories.

It is also then that your own palliative care, finding comfort, becomes a daily hill to climb as you reengage a daily routine that is now underpinned with a much clearer sense of what鈥檚 important.

When she died, I spent time alone with my mom, gently stroking her and whispering private thoughts. Finally I kissed her, told her I loved her, turned off the light, closed the door to her room in hospice, and left. That was that, right?

In fact, that is not that. That鈥檚 merely the start of a long and difficult process. The healing for those who have lost a loved one begins as soon as the door shuts behind you. As with the medication given to your loved one, moments of comfort offered by friends can cover the loss, but they cannot remove it at its core.

Since my mom died earlier this year, several friends have also lost loved ones. And people I didn鈥檛 know before have reached out and shared about their own losses. Whether the loss occurred within days, or within years of when we shared, the human bond has this in common 鈥� immense sadness and an emptiness that was once filled by the person you鈥檝e lost.

It鈥檚 a club we鈥檙e all destined to be members of. And it鈥檚 a club in which each member holds intense memories of moments that will force us into feelings of joy, emptiness, love, sadness, happiness, loneliness, fond memories and anger. Somewhere in all of that friends have a role to play in providing comfort.

Giving that comfort does not mean explaining the loss, trying to convince the person grieving that they 鈥渟houldn鈥檛 be feeling as they are,鈥� or giving answers for questions, whether asked by the person who is sorting through the loss, or just assumed by the friend. It鈥檚 simply being there to listen, maybe even over and over to the same story, and to understand that emotions are a ghost that are oftentimes beyond our control.

Triggers are all around. If you鈥檙e that person called on to be the comforter, just be there. You don鈥檛, and should not 鈥� and cannot 鈥� 鈥渆xplain鈥� the loss. Just be there.

I suppose there鈥檚 a difference between grieving the loss of a loved one 鈥� the inability to sit and share life together 鈥� and memories you cling to of the one you will continue to cherish, even years after their death. The lines defining that difference are blurred. Maybe it鈥檚 all intertwined.

From personal experience, I know one thing for certain. There is a real relationship between the depth of loss you feel and the depth of love you shared while the person was still alive. That relationship will affect the roller coaster and duration of the grieving process.

The holidays are here. There are people around you, whether in your family, friends or co-workers, who are hurting. The intensity of the pain changes from memory to memory. The emotions it evokes are unpredictable. It can be masked by the events of the day, but it鈥檚 there.

Underneath the smiles you see is a hole where there was once a person who was, and continues to be, a part of their being.

You can鈥檛 fix that.

But you can offer comfort care. Don鈥檛 force it, but be available. It鈥檒l be your turn to be on the receiving end one day.