I have thus far only been seeing one patient throughout my time as a hospice care volunteer—we’ll call her “C.” On the surface, our relationship is straightforward: she is a patient, and I am her volunteer. There is a kind of professional boundary that exists between us, and she does not know my name or recognize my face when I walk in. Yet, I still feel that there is something real between us. “C” tells me about her time at college, her years as a teacher, her children, her grandchildren, and her husband. She may not always remember the details correctly, but I can hear how she feels about the people in her life, and how much joy she takes in recounting it. In a way, I have come to think of myself as a kind of diary for her. I hold onto pieces of her life that she may no longer be able to hold onto herself.
One of the most important things “C” has taught me is how full a life can actually be. I am still in school, and most days it feels like school is my entire world. But when I sit with “C,” I realize that what I am living right now is just one chapter among many that are still ahead of me. She talks about college as something long past, just one part of a much bigger story. Hearing her speak about her life, I felt, for the first time, what it actually means to have lived.
I will be honest: it is not always easy. “C” often repeats the same stories from visit to visit, and there are moments when sitting and listening for hours feels tiring. But the longer I spend with her, the more I find myself thinking about what it must feel like to be her. She is likely far more exhausted than I am. She is likely far more frustrated. And yet she still sits up, still talks, still smiles. I think that is the most important thing hospice has taught me about patient care: patience and kindness are not just nice to have. They are essential. Putting myself in a patient’s shoes, recognizing that they are carrying far more than I am, is something I will carry into every clinical encounter I have.
I have also grown in ways I did not expect. Before this experience, I was not sure how to communicate with patients. I have a naturally quiet voice (and I mumble a lot), and during my first few visits, “C” could not hear me. Over time, I learned to adjust, to be more thoughtful about my volume, my proximity, and what I chose to say. I became more aware of when to ask questions and when to simply listen. I believe that kind of attentiveness is something that cannot be taught in a classroom.
This experience has also reshaped how I think about the role of a volunteer. I came in expecting to assist with tasks. I did not expect that the most meaningful thing I could offer was simply my presence and attention. Watching “C” light up when she talks about her family has shown me that being heard is one of the deepest human needs, and that I can meet that need even as a volunteer.
For a medical school application, I would describe this program as one of the most formative experiences of my undergraduate years. It has made me more intentional, more empathetic, more aware, and far more understanding of the responsibility that comes with caring for another person. I came in uncertain of my impact. I leave certain that it matters.