The first patient I saw passed away one week after I got to know him. I knew his name, his background on paper, and that he liked philosophy. That’s currently all I know, and probably all I ever will know about him.
I wasn’t expecting much for my second patient. The first time I met F, she was awake and in high spirits. We had a nice conversation about cats. I told her my name, she nodded happily, and we continued chatting. After one hour had passed, I told her I had to go. F nodded understandingly and thanked me for coming, and we parted ways.
One week later, I opened the door to F’s room. I introduced myself again, she nodded her head and gave me a big toothy grin, and we began talking again. I learned that she liked pink roses, and disliked black ones. She liked her stuffed animals to be put in a specific arrangement. She opened up about her family, and showed me pictures of them from a newspaper. We came to the topic of animals again, and I showed her pictures of animals in a zo0, many of which she had never seen before. Scrolling to a picture of a red panda, I felt her excitement fill the room, her eyes wide with delight. “So cute!” she exclaimed. Constantly surrounded by sleep-deprived, tired college students, it was a nice jolt of surprise for me to see someone get excited over something that seemed so mundane.
Our visits continued. I met F in November, and I visited her last week in April. In the six months that we’ve been talking, I’ve learned countless things about her past history, her preferences, and her various moods. I come in every visit and introduce myself, she gives me a familiar nod, and we talk. At the start of the year, she mentioned that she enjoyed coloring. After that, my sketchbook became my companion whenever I visited her. As she talked, my paper slowly was filled with sketches of cats. I’m no expert by any means, but when I carefully tore off the paper and handed it to her for the first time, the look of pure awe in her eyes when she held up the sketch was unbelievable. She couldn’t stop tracing her fingers over the paper, wordlessly mouthing “oh” over and over again. I was told from other volunteers and nurses that she had shown the drawing to anyone who visited her for a whole week. Every time after that, I’ve drawn for her during every visit. She has a small collection of cat sketches in her shelf now.
About a month ago, I came into her room, and she was sleeping peacefully on her bed. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I took a seat slightly behind her and set out my sketchbook and let her slowly wake up. The volunteer coordinator was with me that day, and came in right as F was blearily opening her eyes. The coordinator asked a couple of questions to F. “How are you doing? Did I accidentally wake you up?” To these questions, F only stared blankly at the wall. Her eyes moved to the volunteer coordinator. I’ve never seen her with such lifeless eyes before. It was scary. Apparently F had been talking normally the day before. The volunteer coordinator tried again, asking the same questions. F gave the same non-response. Finally, I chimed in, asking if F was okay. Still, no reaction. I scooted my chair forward a little so I could clearly see her face. When her eyes moved down to mine, her eyes lit up and she excitedly said, “Oh, it’s you!” and suddenly was her normal self again. The rest of the visit continued as usual.
Last week, when I visited, she couldn’t hear me. “Speak louder!” she said. At one point, I was practically screaming in her ear. She had shook her head frustratedly.
When I first signed up for the hospice program, I was told that hospice patients have an expected lifespan of less than six months. From November to now, it’s been exactly six months. I realized that after my first patient had died, subconsciously, I didn’t want to build attachments, only to lose them again. However as I realized that when she mentioned how she liked pink roses and I brought some in the very next visit, there was no use in trying to prevent myself from doing so. From the hospice reflection meetings I’ve gone to, I’ve come to be more accepting of death. This is a natural part of life that no one, including doctors, can entirely prevent. And it’s not something that we should try to prevent at all costs. This doesn’t mean that we should distance ourselves entirely in fear of the inevitable loss of life. A life spent avoiding pain is not a life I want to live. I’ve leaned how to lean in to the beautiful parts of F’s life that she has allowed me to be a part of while simultaneously understanding and being at peace with the fact that one day, this will come to an end.