On Tuesday, as I sat beside him, “Frank” died (*not his real name). I didn’t notice his last breath, just a sudden stillness. I placed my hand near his mouth, to see if I could feel an exhalation, and when I didn’t, I touched him gently and said goodbye. Then I went to get the nurse, to note the time of death. Frank was 93, and while his death was expected, we didn’t expect it then. I had just seen his family out, and told them I’d sit with him. However, when it comes to death, I’ve learned that expectations are foolish.
As a Hospice volunteer, I spend every Tuesday with people who are dying. I cook their meals; hold their hands; read to them; I sing and I sit quietly. I tell them stories and I listen to theirs. I wipe their foreheads, when fever or illness makes them sweat; I…
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