“It takes a village, and we are honored to be a part of yours because everyone deserves to live a full life.”

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Jocelyn Route is a compassionate and experienced Death Doula with over 20 years of service as a macro-level social worker and licensed foster parent. She has dedicated her life to providing care, advocacy, and emotional support for individuals and families navigating the dying process.

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Jocelyn Route served as an At-Large Board of Education Member for Prince George’s County Public Schools and as a Ward 1 Council Member in the Town of Bladensburg, MD.

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But nothing—not my years in public service, not my experience navigating government systems—prepared me for 2024, the year that changed everything.

 

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The Day Everything Changed

 

It was February 2024 when my mother suffered a debilitating stroke. One moment she was calling me on the telephone, the next, she was paralyzed, non-verbal, and dependent on a tracheostomy ventilator to breathe. 

 

I remember flying back to LA and walking into the hospital room, the beeping of machines, the stiff, sterile air, and my mother—the strongest woman I know—unable to speak.

 

She looked at me, her eyes filled with confusion, pain, and something else… a plea. A silent call for help.

 

I gripped her hand, wanting  myself to be strong. But I didn’t know how.

 

There was no roadmap. No guide. Just medical jargon, rushed doctors, and choices that felt impossible to make.

 

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The Weight of Advocacy: More Than Just Watching Over Her

 

At first, we trusted the system. We believed that hospitals, rehabilitation centers, and long-term care facilities would do right by her. But very quickly, we learned that if you don’t advocate, you get overlooked.

 

We learned that:

✔ If you don’t ask the right questions, you don’t get the full picture.

✔ If you don’t push back, they’ll do what’s most convenient—not what’s best.

✔ If you don’t watch carefully, mistakes will happen.

 

Suddenly, we weren’t just family members—we were her protectors, her negotiators, her shield against the cracks in the system.

 

My father was the strongest among us.

 

He was always at her side, always steady, always asking the questions we didn’t know to ask. He made sure she was turned properly to prevent bedsores, that her medications were given at the right time, that her trache was cleaned properly.

 

And my sisters and I? We followed his lead.

 

We were a team, each of us taking turns to be by her bedside, to monitor her care, speak up when something wasn’t right, and step in when one of us was too weak to protest on our own on my mom’s behalf. 

 

And even though we were strong, we needed support too.

 

We needed someone to catch what we missed, because when you’re running on exhaustion and fear, details slip through the cracks.

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We needed an extra set of ears in meetings where doctors spoke too fast and expected us to just nod along.

We needed an extra stern voice to demand, “No, this is not okay. You need to stop. You need to come back later.”

 

We needed someone to help us carry the weight.

 

Because caregiving is more than just showing up—it’s standing guard, absorbing medical information you never thought you’d need to know, making split-second decisions that could change everything, and doing it all while emotionally falling apart inside.

 

We were doing everything we could to keep her safe, to keep her comfortable, to make sure that she knew, even in her most vulnerable moments, that she was not alone.

 

And then—while I was still learning how to fight for my mom—I lost my father.

 

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Losing My Father, Finding My Purpose

 

The signs had been there, but we had been too consumed with my mother’s care to see them clearly.

 

For months, my father had been in pain, his back hurting worse and worse, his movements growing slower, his strength faltering. But every time we asked if he was okay, he’d wave us off. 

 

“It’s nothing.”

“Just old age.”

“I’ll be fine.”

 

But he wasn’t fine. We went from doctor to doctor, searching for answers.

 

“I don’t know.”

“It’s probably just muscle strain.”

“Try physical therapy.”

 

We finally got him to a doctor in September 2024, and by then, the truth was unavoidable—a mass on his kidney.

 

I remember the cold laptop that sat in my hands as I heard these words on zoom:

✔ Stage 4 Kidney Cancer.

✔ It had spread to his prostate.

✔ It was too late.

 

But the truth was, there wasn’t much we could do.

 

I should have broken down.

I should have screamed.

I should have begged the universe for more time.

 

But I didn’t. We had to immediately fight for our father, our anchor, our leader, the one who carried the weight of everything so we didn’t have to.

I had no time to grieve.

 

I had to be strong—for him, for my mother, for my family.

 

We tried treatment, but his body weakened quickly. By November 2024, my father—the man who had always been our caretaker—was now the one who needed care.

 

We tried to fight, but his body was already too weak.

 

The one who needed us.

 

The one who was leaving us.

 

On November 11, 2024, he took his last breath.

 

And suddenly, we weren’t just advocating for my mother’s care—we were grieving my father’s death at the same time.

 

I remember standing at the cemetery, surrounded by people, friends and family but feeling completely alone. The weight of everything we didn’t know, everything we didn’t prepare for, everything we weren’t ready to face pressed down on me. I couldn’t cry. I would make my kids cry if I did. I held it in. Slow release but mostly held it in. 

 

And then—just one week after we buried him—I got a call from my sister that my mother was being rushed to the hospital.

 

Her nursing home had been neglecting her during the time we were attempting to grieve the loss of our father and properly bury him. She had developed a severe pressure wound, so bad that the City of Los Angeles launched an investigation and found the nursing facility neglectful. The sherrif’s report and hospital social worker complaints- SUBSTANTIATED.

 

I was drowning. Drowning in grief. Drowning in responsibilities. Drowning in a system that felt cold, unfeeling, and overwhelming.

 

And then, I had a realization.

 

“What if we had a death doula?”