Working in hospice has transformed the way I view patient care. When I first started, I assumed my primary responsibility would be to help the patient directly, but I quickly learned that my role extended beyond that. One patient, Mr. “Bennett” (name changed for privacy), deeply impacted me and shifted my understanding of what it truly means to provide care.
Mr. “Bennett” was one of the most resilient people I have ever met. Despite being extremely ill—unable to speak, hear, eat, or walk without difficulty—he fought to keep going every day. His body was failing him, yet his spirit remained intact. Our communication relied solely on actions and pointing, which was challenging at first, but I was amazed by how well we could understand one another without words. He had a deep love for animals, and his face would light up whenever the cats in the house came near him. He would wave at them and watch them intently. But nothing brought him more joy than his grandchildren. Whenever they visited, it was as if he gained a second wind, reminding me of the profound emotional connections that sustain people even in their final stages of life.
One moment that will always stay with me happened when I was helping Mr. “Bennett” use the bathroom. Out of nowhere, he started dancing with me. He couldn’t speak, and he could barely move, yet for a few moments, he let himself embrace joy. It was a simple but profound reminder that even in hospice, even when facing the inevitable, life’s little moments still matter.
Mr. “Bennett” was also quite stubborn and had a mischievous side. Because my fellow hospice volunteer and I were new, he took advantage of that, making us work harder and teasing us in his own way. Despite his limitations, he was still himself—strong-willed, independent, and full of personality. Over time, even though he couldn’t verbally communicate with us, I truly believe we built a connection. He may not have remembered us from visit to visit, but we learned to understand what mattered to him. His grandchildren, his routine, and his love for the animals around him became clear through his actions, and we adjusted our care to ensure he was as comfortable and happy as possible.
However, my biggest takeaway from this experience was that hospice care is not just about the patient—it’s about their family as well. Mr. “Bennett”’s family was struggling. They didn’t come from money, so hiring outside help wasn’t an option. His son had to quit his job to take care of him full-time, and the family had not gone out to dinner together in over six months. They had put their lives on hold to care for him. When we arrived, we weren’t just offering assistance to Mr. “Bennett”—we were giving his family a chance to step away, to breathe, even if only for a little while. That was when I realized that sometimes, the most meaningful impact you have in hospice isn’t with the patient but with the people who love them.
This experience has reshaped my understanding of medicine and reinforced my commitment to becoming a doctor. I have learned how to care for a patient without relying on spoken communication, an invaluable skill in any medical setting. I have also learned how to provide emotional support to families, who often need just as much care as the patient themselves. But perhaps most importantly, I have gained a newfound appreciation for life and all the little moments that make it meaningful.
Mr. “Bennett” is still alive, and I will be visiting him again in March. The journey I have shared with him and his family has changed me in ways I never expected. It has made me more patient, more observant, and more grateful for everything I have. Most of all, it has solidified my desire to dedicate my life to medicine, ensuring that I not only care for patients but also support the families that stand beside them.