Throughout my hospice volunteering experience, one of the most memorable patients I met was someone I’ll call “Andrew.” I met him during my very first visit to the Maple Wood nursing home, and even though I only saw him that one time, the interaction stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect.
“Andrew” lived on the memory care floor, and like many of the patients there, he couldn’t really hold a full conversation. Most of the time, he couldn’t respond directly to our questions. But what surprised me was that he immediately recognized that my partner and I were Princeton students, even though we weren’t wearing anything that would suggest that. It made me realize that even when someone seems disconnected, there are still parts of them that remain present in ways we might not fully understand.
He asked us to play Jenga and a card game with him. Neither of us actually knew how to play, but we just followed along and let him lead. He didn’t seem to mind at all. The whole visit was mostly quiet, but every once in a while, he would share small pieces of his life—he mentioned that he used to be a doctor, and that he has a son and a grandson. Even though his sentences were fragmented, those moments felt meaningful, and we made sure to listen carefully whenever he spoke.
When we got up to leave, I didn’t expect much of a response. But he looked at us and said “thank you,” very sincerely. That moment really stayed with me. It made me realize that even if patients can’t communicate clearly, they can still feel our presence. And maybe that presence matters more than we think.
Before hospice, I had volunteered at Princeton Medical Center, where I was always focused on being productive—helping as much as I could, completing tasks, and showing that I was useful. Hospice was completely different. There wasn’t much to “do” in the traditional sense. A lot of the time, we were just sitting with patients, talking when we could, or simply being there.
At first, that felt uncomfortable. I kept thinking, “Am I actually helping?” But over time, I started to understand that this kind of quiet presence is also a form of care. Not everything meaningful looks active or measurable. Sometimes, just showing up and sitting with someone is enough.
I also noticed that this experience made me more patient. There were many moments where conversations didn’t go anywhere, or where I didn’t get a response at all. It could feel frustrating, but it forced me to slow down and let go of the expectation that every interaction has to lead somewhere. I think that’s something I’m still learning, but it’s already changed the way I approach people and situations in general.
More importantly, this experience made me think more deeply about why I want to go into medicine. Before, I think I focused a lot on the action-oriented side of healthcare—diagnosing, treating, solving problems. Hospice showed me another side of medicine, one that is quieter but just as important. Being present with patients, especially when there’s no clear solution or cure, requires a different kind of care—one that is rooted in empathy, patience, and respect.
If I were to describe this experience in a medical school application, I would say that hospice taught me to rethink what it means to care for someone. It’s not always about doing more; sometimes it’s about being willing to stay, to listen, and to acknowledge the person in front of you, even when communication is limited. This experience didn’t just confirm my interest in medicine—it helped me understand the kind of physician I hope to become. I would also write that being a hospice volunteer has taught me the importance of patience and good listening, which I’m sure will aid me in becoming a personable physician.