Hospice

In the end, my patient didn't die while I sat there with her. It was an honor to sit with her and help make her more comfortable. Her partner returned from his errands and I stood up to talk to him in the living room. We talked quietly about my next visit, and I told him that if she did end up passing soon, not to worry about calling me, that my coordinator would do that. I went back into the bedroom and said good-bye gently to my patient, who found the strength to lift her head and say good-bye to me. On my way out, I stopped by her partner, who was almost slumped with grief. I asked him if he was a hugger and he looked confused for a minute than smiled and stepped toward me. I gave him a big hug, told him to take care of himself, and left the apartment.
He called me that night and told me that my visits, although few, had meant a great deal to him and my patient. He told me she had died an hour before.

Hospice

Sitting there in that quiet, darkened room, watching the tree branches through the window moving lazily in the breeze, listening to the hiss and gurgle of the oxygen machine, I pondered that question. If she died right now, or while I was there, how would I feel about that? Would it totally freak me out, or would I be fine? I'm no stranger to death, or even to seeing people die peacefully in front of me, but its been a while, and this was a stranger. I decided that I would be okay if she died, although I would prefer she didn't. I would be okay with seeing her leave this earth, witnessing her death, even though I would probably need a good big hug from my partner later. I was filled with a sense of quiet and peace as I sat there watching her breath, watching the trees, and I felt that spontaneous welling up of tears both happy and sad that tells me I'm in exactly the right place at the right time, doing exactly what I should be doing.

Hospice

We had arranged for me to visit my patient at the same time as the bathing assistant was to visit so I could help change her sheets. I got up that morning, expecting to go to my patient later when I received a call from her partner. My patient had experienced a very bad night and was now semi-comatose. He was afraid that it meant her end might be coming. I arranged to visit anyway so he could run some errands, when I showed up at the apartment, I met the partner and could see the grief and anguish in his kind eyes. I comforted him as best I could and then went into the bedroom to greet my patient. She was slumped over the table by her bed, struggling for each breath, but when I entered, she looked up and actually recognized me. It was a lovely moment, but I was sad at what I thought might be coming. As I sat there with her, watching her fight for breath, it occurred to me that she could possibly die while I was with her.

Hospice

On my second visit, I was astonished to find my patient up and around, if a little slowly, making lunch and cracking jokes with her partner. I found her to be delightful, funny and wry; it was clear they had a familiar rapport, a give and take of sarcastic comments and faked outrage. It was a pattern familiar to me from my own relationship, and I noticed them testing me a little to see if I could understand, and even more importantly, respond in kind. I began teasing them back, and I could see them relax a little; we were part of the same tribe! After shooing her partner out the door to take a much-needed break, however, she turned more pensive. She began speaking of her fear, her dislike of being dependent and slow, unable to do the things she really wanted to do and tired of depending on others she didn't want to burden. I told her I understood, sharing some of my own history of illness and dependence. I could tell how much she loved her partner and her children, and how much she hated the idea of being a burden, and also of leaving them. It was an honor to sit with her during this time, and help in some small way by listening and understanding.

Hospice

On my first visit to my hospice patient, I didn't even meet the patient, who was having a very bad day. Instead, I had the opportunity to speak to my patient's primary caregiver and son. They were lovely people, unsure at first what MY purpose was for being there. I explained that I was there only to take care of them; I was that good friend who you would call for help, if only you could bear to bother them. I was there to do some light housekeeping, read to the patient, or sit with them to give the caregiver a break or the chance to leave the home. This seemed to relax them somewhat and they proceeded to talk to me about the situation and how they felt about their loved one's illness. I was struck by how open they were about what was happening and about to happen. When my mother was dying, no one in my family really spoke about the process, how it would look, and what would happen. As an adult, I know now what to expect, but as a young person I would have appreciated the openness exhibited by this family.