Living & Dying

In hospice, we learn to keep asking who the person is beyond what brought them into our care. What has their life been like? Who matters to them? What do they enjoy, believe in, worry about, or still hope for?

Physical comfort needs careful attention. Alongside it, there may be worry about a partner at home, a wish to see an animal again, or uncertainty about what will happen after death. Sometimes what matters most is being able to do something for themselves, even if it takes longer.

We learn how closely these parts of a person’s life belong together. Caring for someone means making room for their relationships, their beliefs, and the ordinary things through which they recognise themselves.

It also asks us to question our own ideas about what a peaceful or meaningful end of life should look like. Someone may want family gathered around them. Another person may need privacy. There may be a wish for prayer, laughter, familiar television, or no conversation at all.

We learn to ask, to listen, and to let someone’s answer change how we accompany them. We bring our experience, and we remain open to learning what care means to this particular person.

In hospice, care can become very intimate. We may be helping someone wash, changing their clothes, supporting them to move, or tending to their mouth when they can no longer manage this themselves. We are entering someone’s personal space at a time when so much may already feel beyond their control.

I think about the difference it makes to knock before entering, introduce what we are there to do, and ask before touching. To keep someone covered where we can, explain what is happening, and give them time to respond.

When someone has less energy or finds speaking difficult, this asks us to pay closer attention. A change in their expression, a movement away, or tension in their body may invite us to pause and check. I want to remain curious rather than assume I know what they are experiencing.

Comfort is personal, too. Someone may want a window open, familiar music, their own blanket, or the room quiet. They may welcome touch one day and prefer more space the next.

These details matter to me because they are part of how a person continues to have a say in their own care. Even when someone needs help with almost everything, there are still preferences to ask about and choices we can respect.

I carry a deep appreciation for this kind of attentive, practical care. It asks us to keep meeting the person, to notice when something needs adjusting, and to remember that our workplace is, for that time, their most private space.

My years in hospice have deepened my respect for conversations about dying. They can be difficult to begin, especially when we are afraid of upsetting someone or hearing something we don’t know how to respond to.

There are practical questions: Who would you like us to call? Who would you want beside you? Would you prefer company or some quiet? Is there music you would like to hear, or something familiar you want close by?

And there are questions that ask us to listen differently. Is there something worrying you? Someone you would like to see? Something you want your family to understand? Are there beliefs or traditions you would like us to honour?

I think about how vulnerable it can be to express a wish when you depend on others for care. It matters to me that we ask, allow time for an answer, and remain open to being surprised. What feels comforting to us may be very different from what the person wants.

We may also need to hear, “I’m frightened,” without immediately reassuring them, or “I don’t want to talk today,” without pushing further.

These conversations can unfold slowly, over several visits, and wishes can change. Sometimes making a beginning is enough: letting someone know that we are willing to listen when they want to speak.

There is something about lighting a candle for someone, choosing their photograph, or preparing food they loved that touches me deeply. It gives me a way to spend time with the relationship, to remember, to feel what I miss, and perhaps to say something I couldn’t say before.

This is part of why altars and ritual matter to me. I like being able to give someone a place in the life I am living now. To speak their name, share a memory with my children, or sit quietly with what comes.

And sometimes what comes is complicated. There may be love alongside hurt, gratitude alongside questions. I want there to be room for that, too. We can honour someone’s life and still be honest about how we experienced them.

My hospice experience and training as a Last Help Kids & Teens facilitator inform my interest in how we speak with children about death.

As a mother, these questions are personal, too. How can I answer honestly? What is my child actually asking? Can I stay open when I feel unsure myself?

I want there to be room for their questions and for us to keep learning together.

My time in hospice has stayed with me in ways I am still discovering.

I think about the people I accompanied, the trust they placed in me, and what it meant to be welcomed so close to their lives.

I carry questions from that time into my work and into being a mother.

Am I really listening, or am I already deciding what someone needs? Can I stay close when I feel helpless? Can I give something time when part of me wants to make it better straight away?

These questions feel very alive to me. There are days when I can listen with patience, and days when I notice how quickly I move towards an answer. I am grateful for what hospice taught me, and aware of how much I am still learning to live it.