I have spent the past few Sundays with “A.B.” and his wife, observing their love that has endured for over 50 years. Even in the face of illness and extended, multi-month hospice care, their love is strong—based on half a century of memories, unspoken understanding, and the kind of comfort that only comes after a lifetime. I noticed how she re-tucked his blanket silently, the way she jokingly teased him while cleaning off powdered sugar from his chin, and how she made sure to always bring doughnuts for her husband and his new roommate, a small but meaningful gesture of tenderness.
Amidst the gravity of their situation, there was still laughter. “A.B.”‘s wife was quick-witted, and she could make him laugh even when his words wouldn’t come. Their banter reminded me that there is still happiness even at the worst times. She would roll her eyes in pretended irritation when he was being stubborn, and he would squeeze her hand back.
Even in tender moments, she recounted to me just how fearful she was to spend time alone. She had bought a cat for companionship purposes, but being without “A.B.” in a vacant house was something she hadn’t experienced for decades. She told me about their daughter, who battled with addiction and abusive relationship – how, in her desperation, she had stolen from them, shattering their trust and causing them to get a restraining order against her. And their son, who passed away in his 30s due to a stroke. The grief of losing two children never faded, and now with “A.B.” bedridden, that loss has left her feeling even more vulnerable.
In it all, she clung to her faith. She promised me over and over again that God was guiding things, that she had hope that “A.B.” would somehow regain his strength and come home. I didn’t know how to respond to that optimism, knowing that the actual world might not be in sync with her hope. But I was aware that my role wasn’t to clarify or correct, it was to listen. So I sat with her and listened to her tales, posed questions to her, and gave room for her to tell me about her fears and hopes without criticism. At some points in our conversation, “A.B.” had the energy to nod his head or clench his fist. Other times, he simply laid there as she spoke for both of them.
Before this experience with hospice, I believed I understood what it meant to care for someone at the end of life. I thought it was soothing and symptom-management. I’ve come to understand it’s also about being present to see a human being’s life, their struggles, and their love. Observing “A.B.” and his wife, I saw first-hand that medicine isn’t about curing disease, it’s more about curing humans.
Watching Being Mortal reminded me of this lesson. Atul Gawande’s description of how medicine seeks to add years to life without concerning itself as much with quality resonated with me. “A.B.”‘s wife’s desperation to see him recover was poignant but so real. It made me think about how doctors deal with these encounters, and how difficult it would be to balance honesty and empathy. As a physician one day, I want to participate in these moments with the same patience and empathy that I’ve learned in hospice.
When I do enter medical school, I will not merely be referring to this experience as one of learning about end-of-life care. It has been one of learning about listening, empathy, and appreciating the quiet strength that carries people along, even in the face of loss. “A.B.” and his wife have also taught me what it truly means to love and care about someone through life’s most difficult moments. They’ve shaped the kind of doctor and the kind of person I hope to become.