Becoming an End-of-Life Companion, Part 14: A Day at the Hospice

As part of our program, I was invited to spend a full day at the hospice, since many of the people I'll be accompanying at home will eventually ask about it, in case they need or want to go there themselves one day.

I was looking forward to it, though also a little afraid of getting overwhelmed by the experience. I was assigned to shadow Kristina, a wonderful woman who's been volunteering at the hospice for quite a while and who is now a dear friend of mine. She was a true blessing, not only did she make sure to include me in every visit, she also took the time to share her experiences and patiently answer my many questions.

A hospice offers far more comfort than a regular hospital. A chef cooks fresh meals every day. There's a spa room with a high-tech bathtub for patients who can no longer move on their own. And there's a beautiful rooftop terrace, a place where many last sunrises and sunsets have been watched. Every patient can sleep for as long as they want, there's no fixed shower schedule like in hospitals, which gives people far more independence.

Some arrive at the very end of their life and stay only a few days. Others are still in relatively good shape and stay for months. Some are even able to go home again for some time. The care at a hospice can do remarkable things.

Not everyone at the hospice is aware of where they actually are, and the reasons vary. Some believe they're in a nice regular hospital, others don't attach any label to the place at all. Whatever story someone has built around their stay, it's not our place to correct it, unless they specifically ask. You don't lie to people at a hospice, but you do respect whatever truth they're living in.

I was fortunate to be welcomed into quite a few rooms that day, and to meet several more patients on the rooftop terrace. Every encounter was, at once, beautiful and heartbreaking. Some came with long, deep conversations. Others with just a few kind words. And some with no words at all, only presence, shared through eye contact and touch.

One patient had a stuffed monkey in bed with him. He told us it was a gift from his grown-up daughter: her favorite childhood toy, given back to her father to comfort him in his final days. I have no words to describe the sheer weight of emotion in that room in that moment. It was one of those moments that reminds you what life is actually about. There were no more questions left to ask. No more words needed.

A week after my visit to the hospice, I saw almost the exact same stuffed monkey on the street, left there by someone as a gift to whoever might need it. Only that it was not in Berlin but in Salzburg - my hometown. What are the odds? It was one of those moments where you wonder what this all means.