“Sarah” and I shared many moments over coffee, a simple ritual that became the foundation of our bond. She had heart failure, and while her body grew weaker, her spirit remained vibrant. When I first met her, I was unsure of what to say, afraid that I wouldn’t have the right words or that I would somehow overstep. But “Sarah” never let silence linger uncomfortably—she filled it with stories, laughter, and the occasional knowing glance when words were unnecessary. She would tell me all about her favorite coffee flavors, how she used to wake up early just to sit on her porch with a hot cup of coffee, watching the world slowly wake up. She always said that coffee tasted best when shared with someone else. Over time, I stopped focusing on what I should say and instead learned to simply be present with her.
Her decline was difficult to witness. There were days when she struggled to catch her breath, when the coffee sat untouched between us. But even in those moments, “Sarah” never lost sight of what mattered most to her: connection and a sense of normalcy. I remember one afternoon when she was too tired to talk, so we just sat together, listening to the faint TV background voices. She reached for my hand, and in that moment, I understood that words weren’t always necessary to provide comfort. Sitting beside her, I came to understand that my role in hospice was not to change the outcome, but to make the time she had left more comfortable, more meaningful.
“Sarah” spent her last days in the hospice facility, where she could continue her small comforts—drinking coffee, reminiscing, and being surrounded by warmth and familiarity. I was grateful to be a part of that, to be someone she could rely on in those moments when the weight of her illness felt heavy. When she passed, I felt a profound sense of loss but also immense gratitude for the time we had shared. I kept thinking about that last cup of coffee we had together—how she held it close, savoring each sip, as if making a quiet peace with the world.
Before hospice, I thought of medicine in terms of solutions—problems to be diagnosed, treatments to be administered, lives to be saved. But “Sarah” taught me that medicine is just as much about listening as it is about healing, and that sometimes, there is no fix, only care. Watching her navigate her final weeks made me confront a truth that Atul Gawande discusses in Being Mortal: doctors often see death as a failure. But I now believe that failure is not found in death itself, but in failing to honor a person’s wishes and stories in their final days.
Through hospice, I have grown not only as a future physician but as a person. I have learned to sit with discomfort, to hold space for someone else’s pain without trying to fix it. I have come to appreciate that quality of life often matters more than quantity. This experience has reaffirmed my commitment to medicine, but also broadened my perspective on what it truly means to care for someone. “Sarah” showed me that sometimes, the most meaningful acts of care are not grand gestures but simple moments—like sharing a cup of coffee, sitting in quiet companionship, or offering a warm hand to hold.
If I were to describe the value of this program to a medical school, I would say that it teaches aspiring physicians what textbooks cannot: how to listen, how to bear witness, and how to provide comfort when there is nothing left to cure. Hospice has shaped my sense of vocation, not by showing me how to save lives, but by showing me how to honor them. And that, more than anything, is what I will carry with me into my future as a physician.