When I first met Toby, he was quietly seated alone in his room, barely watching the overly loud television playing in the background. The moment the volunteer coordinator and I walked in, his face lit up and maintained a smile for the entirety of our hour long visit. Even as we left, this man who was nearing 100 never failed to be the politest and most caring individual, even making sure to hug and kiss each of us in farewell. Toby was my fourth patient by that point, but the first to be able to hold a coherent and sustained conversation. For the few short months that I knew him, Toby taught me more than I ever thought possible. Through stories of war, music, travel, and family, he imparted lesson after lesson upon me: take chances, appreciate and do not take for granted your loved ones, keep music as part of your life, never stand down when you believe in something.
When I went in for one of my last visits, Toby was again sitting alone in an isolated room, but this time there was no getting up in greeting or holding a full conversation. He could barely hear or see anyone, but continued to tell stories of his family and repeatedly asked how he could help me. He spoke of being ready to move on, how he had a full and happy life and wanted to continue to the next step. I was fortunate enough to visit with Toby a few hours before he passed, actually meeting one of his sons who we had spoken of frequently. Even without the ability to speak or be cognizant of his surroundings, Toby’s lessons were still passed on through his amazingly similar, kind, and gentle son. These are two men I will not soon forget, and I cannot thank both of them enough for showing me such grace and patience throughout our interactions.
I mention Toby in such great detail because he, along with my other patients, are what made this program so transformative for me. Sure the volunteer hours will probably look great in the future, but doing what we do is so much more than the material and egotistical components. Going into this program, I had concerns about handling a patient’s death. I naively hoped that my science background would help me to manage my feelings and thoughts, but I was also concerned that it would limit my ability to show empathy towards my patients. Early on, I found myself getting lost in the medicine side of my patient’s care – seeing conditions play out in real life that I had only ever read about in books. As fascinating as that was, I also knew that for my patients, this was their everyday life, and I was there as a relief, not meant to add more stress and concern. So I went far outside my comfort zone and own upbringing to talk about their stories and families, religions, and politics, in what often seemed to be a beneficial interaction for us both.
My biggest and most important takeaway from this program has been learning how to accept the science or medicine and move past it to focus on the humanity of each patient. We have spoken tirelessly about natural ends versus the now medicalized dying process and knowing what is the best and most comfortable care for each of our patients. For Toby, that was a quiet room with his family all around and as few medical interventions as possible. For someone else, that may be in a hospital with every possible means of assistance. This program has shown me that both are completely acceptable and should not be scary or taboo topics. Medicine truly is so much more than finding the best treatment, simply because a real conversation may be treatment enough to assuage fears and concerns. Using this kindness, understanding, and patience in daily interactions is a lesson applicable to us all, not solely those pursuing a career in medicine.