My first encounter with medical end-of-life care happened quickly and quietly. While shadowing in a hospital emergency department, I watched as a patient coded shortly after arriving. Within minutes, the room filled with a bustling crowd of clinicians in grey and blue scrubs. Just as quickly, the activity stopped. The team stepped away, and the subsequent silence returned to the ordinary rhythm of the hospital. At the time, the moment felt abrupt and strangely impersonal, as though something deeply significant had happened but there was little space to process it.
Later, my mother—who worked in the same hospital—shared her perspective on experiences like that. She described patient death as a tragic failure for the patient’s entire care team. From her perspective, working in palliative care might be emotionally difficult because the goal is no longer curing patients who are already terminally ill. Despite her concern, volunteering with the Athena Hospice Program ultimately reshaped how I understood the role that physicians can play during the end of life.
Early in the program we watched the Frontline documentary Being Mortal, which explored how healthcare providers approach death and dying. The episode reinforced that my mother’s perspective was common—many clinicians struggle with the idea that a patient’s death represents failure. However, it also introduced a different view: that medicine can still provide meaningful care even when curing disease is no longer possible.
My hospice visits helped me understand that perspective more clearly. Rather than dramatic clinical moments, most of my time with patients consisted of simple conversations and quiet companionship. Some enjoyed sharing stories from their lives or offering advice, while others preferred shorter interactions or simply having someone sit with them. One patient, a renowned artist, treated each visit as an opportunity to teach me something new or encourage me to stay curious about the world. Although he sometimes apologized for not being able to teach the way he once had, I found his reflections deeply meaningful. Talking with him made me think more about how hobbies, careers, and creative passions shape a person’s identity. It also reminded me that the desire to learn and create meaning does not disappear at the end of life, and that finding joy in such things remains important at all points in our lives.
Through experiences such as this, I began to see how multifaceted the hospice experience can be. Every patient carried their own story, personality, and way of coping with illness. Observing these differences helped me become more patient and adaptable during conversations. I learned to focus less on finding the “right” words and more on responding thoughtfully to what patients chose to share. That shift made me more comfortable with uncertainty and helped me appreciate how important emotional awareness can be in patient care.
Over time, I also noticed changes in my daily life. As it became easier to approach patients with unconditional grace, I became more ready to offer that same patience and understanding to my peers—and even to myself—when facing our own struggles. I became less readily critical of myself and more willing to accept that growth often involves uncertainty and learning from others.
The Athena Program taught me that medicine is not only about curing illness but also about honoring dignity, listening to patients’ stories, and supporting them through every stage of life. My volunteering experience helped me recognize the profound role physicians can play in providing compassion, presence, and meaning even when cure is no longer possible.