The same beaming smile greeted me at the doorway of Room 405 every time I came to visit. Ceremonious exchanges of Honey Nut Cheerios I had bought from Wegmans’ and oatmeal raisin cookies she had received from her son marked the arrival of a new episode of our much-awaited soap opera. Commercial breaks signaled times for us to discuss new developments and unexpected plot twists. And when it came time to leave, her insistence that I take a tray of cookies home never faltered. Watching General Hospital on Friday afternoons with Kathleen felt like an unwavering ritual, a constant in my ever-fluctuating life.
But as all things do, this custom suddenly came to a close. When I learned of Kathleen’s passing, I couldn’t believe it. How could somebody who had seemed so lively just a few days ago be gone? On the subsequent visit to the hospice, I peered my head into her room, hoping to hear the crunching of Cheerios or the gasps of shock beneath the sounds of the TV. This time, however, I was greeted with an empty bed.
Death is inevitable for all of us, no matter our circumstances. Such a notion is frightening: as a society, we have become accustomed to the infallibility of medicine and the miracles that science brings. Society has painted death as a finality, a Grim Reaper who snatches away life, leaving behind only a soulless corpse. Therefore, when our loved ones fall ill, we place unimaginable effort on trying multiple treatments and procedures. However, the time Kathleen and I spent together has made me rethink the idea of death as an ultimate state. On Kathleen’s windowsill sat dozens of colorful cards written by friends and family. After every episode of General Hospital, Kathleen would turn to a card and flip through it, saying the person’s name. Each card evoked different stories of her past, from meeting Albert Einstein in her mother’s café to tricking her sister into believing that a drawbridge had been moved down the river. Every memory brought an unforgettable smile to her eyes as she recalled memories of loved ones.
At the end of life, medicine can only do so much. There comes a point when the additional benefit gained from another treatment might not be worth the added pain. At this point, instead of experimenting with new medications, it becomes more important to spend time sharing memories with others. Through these shared experiences, people can live on. Hospice care has helped shape my ambitions of pursuing a career in health care: it has shown me that I want to devote my life as a physician to keeping my patients alive through their memories, both in life and in death.
As my volunteer coordinator mentioned in his email, Kathleen passed away peacefully. But in my eyes, she still lives on in everybody she met. I am humbled to have met Kathleen and others through hospice care, as a part of each of them still lives on through me.