Through my experiences with Athena, my impression of the purpose of hospice care transformed. I had seen it before as a place to just maintain bodies until their death, a place to abandon and forget the elderly. However, I have come to see these institutions as a place to ease patients through an uncomfortable process with dignity and recognizing them as the wonderful people that they feel may be slipping from themselves.
My first patient had a background as a soldier and boxer. During our conversations, he would doze off and on. Occasionally he would wake suddenly, startled and confused, asking urgently for his gun. As his respiratory illness progressed, he became almost entirely unconscious. His past seemed to blur with the present in ways that neither he nor those caring for him could fully control, though: when nurses tried to reposition or care for him, he would sometimes reflexively throw punches, trying to defend himself.
This experience made me reflect on how deeply mental and emotional health shape our lives, and the satisfaction we find at the end. I realized that maintaining mental health is not something that can be postponed until life “slows down.” Instead, it is a continuous process that must be attended to throughout life. I wonder whether a less strenuous career or better opportunities for mental healthcare in the military might have allowed him a more peaceful end. His experience taught me that caring for patients means considering not only their physical symptoms but also the histories they carry. It is important to recognize that the past may be causing distress and to let them process it as they want without pushing them either way to remember or forget.
My second patient was usually lucid, though he spoke very softly and mumbled, making it nearly impossible to understand him. Every so often, though, he would say something clearly enough that I could respond immediately. When he realized that I truly understood him, his face would light up with a brief, but unmistakable moment of joy. Those moments were small but powerful. They reminded me that one of the most fundamental human desires is not merely to talk, but to be understood. Being heard as a person with worthwhile quips, insight, or stories visibly restored a piece of dignity.
Another patient would join us with the second patient. She often expressed a desperate wish to die, repeatedly asking to be taken home to die or for someone to end her life immediately. This made me ponder the current legal and ethical state of euthanasia, which I did not often reflect on before. I found, though, that some alleviation was found with acknowledging her suffering, rather than trying to divert or ignore her attention. A nurse later told me that the woman felt significantly better after our conversation, simply because someone had taken the time to listen.
More than anything, these experiences directly taught me that the goal of medicine is not merely prolonging life, but helping people live and pass on with meaning and dignity. My time in hospice reinforced that compassionate presence can be just as important as clinical intervention.
As I pursue a career in medicine, I hope to carry forward the lessons my patients taught me: to listen carefully, to treat mental and emotional health as integral to care, and to ensure that no matter the type or extent of pain or discomfort, every patient feels seen and heard in their suffering.