Seven years ago, I gripped the steering wheel as I tentatively drove to a nearby hospice home. I was responding to a carefully placed ad in a church bulletin asking for volunteers. Why am I even doing this? I thought. I’m afraid of death! Perhaps I felt called to respond because not too long ago, my own Mom and Dad were lovingly cared for by hospice. Still, I convinced myself I would take the tour and then politely refuse the opportunity. I imagined a scene from “The Addams Family” in which I would arrive at a gothic house with the Grim Reaper looking out a window.
And yet, here I was, fidgeting and waiting for some macabre person to answer the door. Instead, a woman who looked as if she were ready to deliver a hug at a moment’s notice warmly greeted me. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace washing over me as I entered the light and airy house. When I saw the tiny chapel located just before the three residents’ rooms, I knew I was hooked. The chapel looked so peaceful with its simplicity. The tabernacle to the right of the altar caught my eye and instantly calmed my fears. And so, I began volunteering every Monday evening — my tasks included hand-holding, reading, praying, feeding, and overall comfort care for the residents.
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I noticed that no matter how bad my Monday was, I would inevitably go home thinking how blessed I was, not because I thought the people I was caring for were less fortunate than me, but because I was given grace to see the world through their eyes. They taught me more about life in their dying days than I ever thought possible. One woman was an artist who loved to show me her work. A painting of hers is on the wall of a local fire company hall. Occasionally, I go there to eat and toast her when I look at the mural she painted. Another older gentleman, who had a magnetic personality, loved to watch the Hallmark Channel with me. I still think of him every time I watch. One of the men I cared for enjoyed playing catch with his stuffed animal when I entered the room as he lay in bed. He taught me that there can be joy and laughter with human interaction at every season of life despite our sufferings.
When a person is given a limited prognosis, they see things differently. Hospice residents notice details with a much clearer viewpoint. Additionally, their last conversations are a beautiful recollection of the life memories they hold dear. The breaking news of the day means nothing to them because they begin to detach from all that is worldly. Instead, there is a reconciliation happening in their mind, body, and spirit as they come to grips with reality, coupled with a sense of clarity, as they prepare to meet their maker. One man, after receiving the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick, looked at the cross hanging on the wall and very peacefully proclaimed he was ready to meet God. One woman found comfort in showing me old pictures of herself when she was young as she reminisced over her most cherished memories raising her children and the many places she lived. What once terrified me has shown me that holding someone’s hand as they transition into the afterlife is sacred. It is an honor and a privilege to comfort someone in their final days and listen to personal stories about their life.
LISTEN: Discussing Hope at the End of Life With Dr. Stephen Doran
Many of the people who come to this beautiful non-profit facility are people of faith. Some are Catholic, but others question their faith. One such woman admitted she didn’t believe in God. I made it my mission to help her find faith. I prayed for God’s mercy. Each week, she grew more inclined to ask questions and step tentatively closer to God. In the end, I kept telling her she should look for the light and keep moving towards it. After she passed, I would sometimes see a glimmer of light that surprises me, and I smile and think of her.
Often, residents would see or talk to relatives who have already died. One resident called out to her deceased sister for days before she passed. Some will reach their hand out to the heavens as if trying to grab someone’s hand. Another resident pointed and exclaimed, “Behind you, do you see him? It’s Jesus!” I slowly looked over my shoulder. I didn’t see anything, but she clearly did. I cried because I knew how blessed we were that Jesus was there to comfort her and take her home. There was a resident who found comfort in having his stocking feet rubbed. When he passed away, I kept feeling a tickling in one foot. I prayed and then said, “Ok, very funny. I know it’s you.”
My dearest friend is a Catholic priest who administers the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick at the hospice home. As Father was praying, I was shocked when an otherwise unresponsive resident receiving the Sacrament loudly said, “Amen.” Another time, when Father was there, a resident suddenly prayed the Our Father even though he had been nonverbal. Those moments are very emotional for me because of the overwhelming supernatural presence of God I feel in the room coupled with a sense of indescribable peace and reconciliation while watching the sacrament.
WATCH: Sacraments 101: Anointing of the Sick
Because I have so little time with the people I care for, I am graced with an overwhelming sense of compassion and love for them. This volunteer work has changed me because the residents teach me how precious life is. When the residents share their pictures, their memories and their lives with me I feel honored to be included in the sacred intimacy of their final thoughts. Hearing their last words is a testament to their life and a gift that I learned to never take for granted.
Hospice care has taught me to look at everything in life as if it is my last day — and so I appreciate nature, people, animals, blessings, and sufferings more intentionally. That intentionality has also taught me to focus on the legacy I want to leave behind. It all comes down to the most important things in life that they love to tell you about in the end which are God, family, friends, loved ones, travel, and very personal cherished memories. I feel they watch over me after they cross over. Hospice care is a unique calling. It’s taught me that life after death is real beyond a shadow of a doubt, and God’s timing is perfect when he calls us home.
