I am asked all the time why in the world I would do something as difficult as working for hospice. People often ask, “Isn’t it so depressing?” It’s sad sometimes, yes. There’s really no way around that.
But I don’t find my job to be depressing. In a way, it’s actually a sacred gift to me. The people I’ve met in their dying moments have changed my outlook on life, and far from depressing, I find their stories precious and inspiring.
Take Jason, 80, married, with children and grandchildren. When he was diagnosed with metastatic liver cancer and it was clear that he was in his final days of life, his whole family gathered in the home where he and his wife, Susan, had raised their children. I had been Jason’s hospice nurse for a few weeks, and his condition, although terminal, remained stable.
The last time I made a visit, however, his condition had changed. In the couple’s bedroom, Jason was unconscious and unresponsive. Jason and Susan’s three children and several grandchildren were gathered around his bed, thumbing through a stack of photo albums.
They were laughing and crying as each of them shared their favorite family stories and memories: trips to the lake, Christmas and holiday highlights, secret childhood mischief. The love surrounding Jason was everything anyone could ask for as they moved toward death. Wanting to honor that time but also be available for whatever they needed, I stationed myself in an office space across the hall to record my notes.
