The car bumped up and down as its wheels rolled over cracks and holes in the asphalt below. Each bump was like a ticking clock counting down towards the inevitable meeting I would have with a person at the end of his life. I rehearsed in my head over and over how I would greet him: “Hello, Mr. X, my name is Benji and I came to visit you and talk with you.” Cold sweat ran down my back as anxiety swept through my heart. As I walked through the hallway and knocked on the door to his apartment, I was frankly terrified of how my first meeting would turn out. The conversations and the relationship we developed was unlike anything I had experienced in my life.
I had a patient in a hospice in Paoli. It was a lengthy drive, 30 minutes each way, but it always gave me the time to think about what to talk about, what to do, what pictures to share, and what to draw. The nervousness of meeting a hospice patient never truly went away, but with each visit with him, I felt like we were getting closer to one another. Every visit, I always found him sitting down on his personal couch, looking aimlessly at the TV screen (playing football, always football), and on the verge of falling asleep. His wife cared very much for him and would usually sit by on the other side of the couch, reading a book. When I came in, he was always happy, excited even, to see me. I would talk extensively with him and research his interests in football to better our social interactions. I would also draw portraits of him and his wife, which he enjoyed very much as he used to be a painter himself. He showed me his paintings on the walls, and he went as far as to walk over to his room, file through his drawers, and guide me through the beautiful sketches he drew a long time ago. What was truly incredible was that he was a Korean War veteran who fought for my country in 1950.
Throughout the first semester, I took the same car, passed through the same bumps, and knocked on the same door every Saturday. I thought this is how it would be for the rest of the year, but he passed away late January.
While I did expect this to happen sooner or later, I was still caught off guard. He was so cheerful, talkative, and alert. Shel Silverstein, in his poem, “The Slithergadee,” describes death as a thief that takes life when you least expect. Beyond the initial shock, I was also very worried about how his wife would handle his death. Dr. Puri, in her article, “The Lesson of Impermanence,” makes an important distinction between impermanence and suffering, quoting the monk, “What makes us suffer is wanting things to be permanent when they are not.”
I was bitter because I wanted my patient to stay with me longer. I wanted to share the experiences I had during winter. I wanted to show him my family as well. I could only imagine how much attachment his wife would have with him, having cared for him for years. However, I was comforted in knowing that his wife understands that he is with his creator, free from suffering. She believed that death was but a gateway to a new life everlasting. As saddening and depressing as death may seem, I am also somewhat relieved to know that he is no longer suffering from his mortal body, his mind freed from the shackles of earth.
I am now visiting a new patient in Paoli who is suffering from neurodegeneration. Every week, on that same road, my body stiffens as my thoughts are overcome with nervousness and fear. I fear that I may not find her in her usual seat in the library, I fear that she may not recognize me, and I fear that she may die before the end of the year. However, despite the fear, I am more than happy to reintroduce myself if I have to, to visit and talk with her, and to listen to her thoughts and stories.