When I first saw Sue, she was wrapped up in a purple blanket, sitting in a wheelchair in front of the television. On the screen, dancers glided across a stage. I approached Sue cautiously, not wanting to disturb her. She looked so peaceful sitting there. Cozy, even. I patted her on the shoulder.
“Hi Sue,” I said. “How are you doing?”
She was eager to see me and greeted me warmly. I complimented her on her purple shawl and asked where she got it from. She seemed confused by my question.
“It’s mine,” Sue replied slowly. She hugged it closer to her body, content in its warmth.
On our first patient visit, the other volunteers and I did our best to make conversation. We tried asking patients questions about their families, hobbies, favorite foods, places they had traveled. But we were often met with silence. Initially, I was frustrated. How could we connect if we couldn’t talk to one another, couldn’t exchange ideas and histories? I knew that we couldn’t always expect to carry a conversation, but I anticipated filling a role as an active listener.
Over the next few visits, though, I learned that talking – filling the air with words – was often unnecessary. What was important was just being there. Being present with the patient, sitting by their bed and acting as a companion.
I did so on that day with Sue, as we watched the graceful movements of the dancers. As a hospice volunteer, I tried to brighten a patient’s day and to be useful in some way. I often struggled to provide comfort while feeling uncomfortable myself. I was unsure of my place, especially when a patient became agitated or disoriented, mistaking me for their grandchild or one of the nurses. But as I sat with Sue, I began to understand that the little things made a difference. A compliment on her purple blanket, a pat on the shoulder, a kind hello – that was all that was needed. As I got up to leave, she gestured to me.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I thought about my experiences in hospice care when I went with my dad and grandma to visit my great-aunt over winter break. For many years she had suffered from Parkinson’s, and her facilities had declined to the point that she had been admitted to a nursing home. Now, she could barely eat or speak.
When we walked into the common room, we saw her sitting apart from the other residents. I wrapped my arms around her frail body in what was supposed to be a hug. My grandma fed her congee, the soupy mixture now one of the only things she could swallow down.
Just last month, we received an email from the volunteer coordinator about Erma, one of the most talkative patients. She loved leopard print and always seemed to have something sassy to say. Erma had passed away. I was shocked – she seemed to be the most emboldened, the most energetic, the most full of life in a place surrounded by death.
My grandma was several years older than my great-aunt. Watching her spoon feed the congee, I thought about how unforgiving death was, how unpredictable, sudden, and ugly. All I could try to do was accompany my patients, and my great-aunt, as they navigated it. While their bodies were on the decline, I might help them steady their minds. What makes a “good death”? I wasn’t sure. But it was the least I could do to simply be there.