I began volunteering in hospice to become more comfortable with a topic that once felt distant to me: death. As a pre-medical student, I knew caring for patients at the end of life would be part of medicine, yet I had never experienced the death of someone close to me. What began as an effort to confront that uncertainty quickly became one of the most meaningful experiences of my college years. Through hospice, I learned to meet people where they are and gained a deeper appreciation for the emotional realities patients and families face as health conditions change.
During my time volunteering, I formed a meaningful relationship with a patient I will call “Margaret.” She lived in the memory care unit, and our relationship was quiet and unconventional. Traditional conversation was often not possible; questions were not always understood, and responses rarely came in words. Instead, our visits consisted of shared smiles, holding hands, and soft humming. At first, I worried that my visits were inadequate; however, over time, “Margaret” taught me that connection doesn’t rely solely on words. She helped me understand the importance of meeting patients where they are rather than where I expect them to be. Through “Margaret,” I learned that patience, attentiveness, and presence are deeply meaningful forms of care. This experience reshaped how I think about patient-centered medicine and showed me that compassion is often communicated in quiet ways.
Two of the patients with whom I formed the closest relationships, “Margaret” and another patient I will call “Valerie,” passed away during my time volunteering. In both instances, I learned about their deaths in simple ways. Near the elevator to “Margaret’s” floor sat a framed photograph with a note announcing her passing the day before. On another visit, when my fellow volunteer and I went to see “Valerie,” her door was locked, and we learned from a staff member that she had passed away. Hearing this news was difficult because we looked forward to our visits.
Around the same time, a close family friend of my roommate was diagnosed with stage four cancer that had spread. Some days she is stable enough to celebrate milestones like planning a birthday, while other days bring fears that she may not make it through the night. Seeing how this uncertainty made my roommate want to be home helped me understand why family members often feel the need to be present for loved ones. In hospice, especially, so much can change from one visit to the next. This realization helped me appreciate the anxiety families feel when they cannot be present and reinforced the importance of keeping them informed. I believe this perspective will help me become a more compassionate physician who recognizes the emotional needs of both patients and their families.
Watching Being Mortal, featuring physician Atul Gawande, reinforced many of the lessons I observed through hospice. The film explains how physicians often see death as a failure. Yet aging and death are realities that cannot always be fixed. My hospice experience helped me understand why focusing only on prolonging life can sometimes overlook a patient’s comfort, dignity, and personal wishes. Meaningful care often requires listening to patients and supporting the kind of life they want to live, even near the end.
These experiences have shaped my sense of vocation in medicine. They have shown me that being a good physician requires more than clinical knowledge. It requires empathy, humility, and the willingness to sit with uncertainty. Sometimes, the most meaningful care a physician can offer is not a cure, but simply being present during life’s most difficult moments.