The word “death” through my first 20 years of life has held continually evolving meanings. Throughout childhood, the concept of death was terrifying for me. My overall good-natured, innocent self, coupled with strict obedience to my parents and our religion had me believing myself to be on a straight-track to heaven; a salvation in the clouds, comfort forever. And that’s where my terror began, in the word “forever”. The idea of endlessness kept me awake at night, my mind racing through the events I predicted to occur within my mind as my body approached death continued into nothingness; a concept left untaught in school and my religion. The death of my grandfather, whom I became close with once he began living under the same roof as I, was in an odd way comforting for me during my struggles accepting death. He died in peace, happy, and surrounded by his loved ones. This experience is the reason why I decided to volunteer with hospice, and had been instrumental in my perception of death.
During the first meeting with my patient, Sprinkles, I spoke with him about his past, his life story per-se, and found myself genuinely interested in hanging out with him. After a few weeks, Sprinkles began to experience painful symptoms of his cancer spreading throughout his body. On one visit in particular, from the start of the visit to the end, Sprinkles was howling in pain, clutching his head, voicing words of helplessness and hopelessness. Several times I went up to the nurses to alert them to his condition, only to hear them respond with, “Oh he’s just very confused.” Sitting with him was difficult, though I knew that at least attempting to converse with him was going to be the best I could do to bring him comfort, and forget about the pain. I realized that no matter how much I wanted to end his pain, there was unfortunately nothing I could do.
The next week Sprinkles was bedridden, asleep via morphine, seemingly very close to death, and then within the following week I was informed of his passing. Leaving that last visit I was sad, not because I knew he was soon to pass away, but because I had somehow believed that all death in hospice was going to be comfortable, painless, and almost easy for the patient to physically experience. From the experiences I had with Sprinkles I was brought close to the realities that doctors face every day with their dying patients. I now feel more prepared for when a patient takes a turn for the worse, as I’ll be more likely to understand the course of life, and make comfort and care for the patient the utmost priority.
My current patient, Kit Kat, has been blind for years, and each time I visit him I can expect him to be cheerily listening to his favorite music with his resident friends in their “music room”. Not a single negative word can be heard uttered under his breath, and visiting him each week is a joy and a half. His visits starkly contrast with the last few I had with Sprinkles, thus providing me with another lesson in my journey through hospice. Although Kit Kat cannot see and has a prognosis of less than six months, he has been able to see the best in things, remaining optimistic when all seems lost. He has taught me how precious life is, and most of all, how comfortable and joyous the end of life can be.
The patients I’ve had the pleasure of visiting in my time volunteering with Seasons have reformed my outlook on death. Aspects in death of which I feared are forgotten, and are instead replaced with feelings of comfort and acceptance. Although becoming close with patients and being unable to alleviate their pain or cure their condition was difficult for me at first, I now realize the role as a healthcare provider is of a much larger scope than providing medicine for ailments. I now feel exceptionally comfortable providing direct care for those in pain. The difficulties I experienced with my first patient have strengthened my understanding of death, and my fuller understanding of the role of a care provider has me eager to take my next steps toward becoming a physician.