It’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I’m tired, thinking about the assignments waiting for me later that night. It has been a stressful week. But at this very moment, I am present, in the dining room of the memory care unit, and “E” (pseudonym for my patient) is sitting by my side. “E’s” got his breakfast in front of him, his favorite of eggs and bacon. After a few bites, he looks over and asks, “But when are they going to fix you something?” He continues asking throughout the meal, concerned that I haven’t been served.
Selflessness was the first thing I learned from “E.” At eighty-seven years old and several years into dementia, his first instinct was still to look out for someone else. Despite the cognitive decline he was experiencing, his concern for the wellbeing of those around him remained intact. That moment stayed with me because it revealed something deeply human: even when memory fades, kindness and selflessness does persist.
As we sat together that morning, the room felt unusually quiet. The other residents ate silently, and there was a stillness that seemed to settle over the dining room. “E” began lightly drumming his knuckles against the table in a rhythmic pattern. “It’s too quiet in here,” he said. “E” was a man who had clearly lived a life of curiosity and energy. And although dementia had taken many of his memories, his spirit remained vibrant. His desire for conversation, activity, and engagement was still very much alive. Spending time with “E” reminded me that even as people approach the end of life, their sense of self—their personality, humor, and curiosity—can remain powerful and meaningful. This truth, that people’s sense of self remains strong, is key to understanding the best hospice care, as discussed in the documentary Being Mortal.
Working closely with hospice patients has also changed something within me. I discovered the value of stepping completely outside of my own concerns, even if only for a brief period. I often volunteer on Sundays, and no matter how stressful my week has been or how many responsibilities I have waiting, I leave my hospice visits feeling refreshed. For two hours, my focus shifts entirely to another person—their stories, their emotions, their comfort. That act of being fully present has become unexpectedly restorative.
One experience that deeply shaped my understanding of my role happened recently. During my final visit with “E,” we knew that he had only a few days left to live. As I prepared to leave, he asked if I could stay for “just ten more minutes.” Although he drifted in and out of sleep during that time, his request impacted me profoundly. It made me realize that even as a volunteer, my presence had meaning. Simply sitting beside him provided comfort. That moment helped me understand how powerful small acts of presence and compassion can be in patient care.
Watching the documentary Being Mortal reinforced many of these lessons. The film emphasizes that good end-of-life care is not only about medical treatment but about dignity, meaning, and human connection. My time in hospice made those ideas tangible. Patients like “E” showed me that maintaining joy, conversation, and companionship can be just as important as clinical care.
This program has strengthened my sense of vocation in medicine. Hospice volunteering showed me that medicine is not only about diagnosing or curing disease, but also about supporting patients as whole people throughout every stage of life. It reminded me that compassion, presence, and empathy are essential components of good medical care.
When I reflect on my hospice experience, I think about “E” tapping his knuckles on the table and insisting the room was too quiet. Even in the face of illness and cognitive decline, he was still seeking connection and life. That lesson—about humanity, presence, and compassion—is one I will carry with me throughout my future career in medicine.