As I reflect on my patient relationships, I can distinctly recall the first memory care patient I had the pleasure of meeting. This is a patient I still visit—for privacy reasons, I will refer to her as “Jane Doe.” Upon visiting the memory care unit for the first time, I was unsure what to expect from both the patient interactions and the environment. I found that the memory care floor was surprisingly lively, with some patients watching TV, coloring, and others engaging with the staff.
My patient, “Jane,” was visibly distressed and could not hold back her tears. I consider myself a quick and resilient thinker but introducing myself to a patient who was in the midst of an emotional breakdown was not a situation I had anticipated. In that moment, many thoughts flooded my head, the most overwhelming being: should I leave? I did consider the option of writing the day off as a bad time to visit and heading back to Villanova. But instead, I decided that if it truly was a bad day to visit, I would leave only at the direction of the staff or the patient. I stayed, and I am very glad I did.
“Jane’s” emotional state did not change as I introduced myself; through her tears, she was only able to tell me her name. She was very disoriented and repeatedly mentioned that she needed to go to the train station. I tried to redirect the conversation away from the train station by sharing anecdotes about my life. This would often lead to a few minutes of conversation before she returned to crying and asking when we were leaving for the train.
I attempted to break this cycle by drawing with her, playing with the dogs, and introducing new conversation topics. Ultimately, nothing held her attention except the train, and I left feeling that I had not provided her with any real service. However, a small victory came when I asked if I could return the following week, and she said that I could.
That day was evidently difficult for both of us, and while she cannot recall the interaction we shared, it gave me a crucial perspective on how frustrating her condition must be. When I visit her on her better days, we talk about her childhood and my experiences in college, sit in silence, draw, and play with the corgi. She still becomes frustrated when she cannot remember something or express her thoughts verbally. Some days are better than others, but even simply being with her in that room is meaningful to both of us.
From “Jane,” I learned that memory care patients will inevitably have frustrating days—as we all do—and that not being alone in those moments can be incredibly impactful.
Throughout the course of this program, I have learned the importance of honoring a person’s dignity and the value of the life they lived in their final moments. I found that, amidst the constant fatigue and confusion that many hospice patients experience, they were often able to ground themselves and find peace when talking about their childhood. It was profoundly moving to hear these older patients describe their parents with such detail and emotion. This experience has taught me countless things about the kind of healthcare provider I hope to be: compassionate, present, understanding, and kind.
In my applications to post-graduate health programs, I will reference this experience as formative in shaping my perspective on patient care and the importance of providing support at the end of life. It is easy in healthcare to focus intensely on healing patients, but this experience has shown me that what healthcare providers often perceive to be their main purpose—healing—is only one fraction of the service we provide to patients.