How Serving Dying Strangers Has Changed My Life

Her love for her granddaughter triggered the emptiness I felt at seven, waiting on the sidewalk in front of church. But then my patient took my hand. “You’re a special girl.”

“Thank you,” I muttered. I could barely speak. Her words fed the unconditional love I craved for decades from my grandparents.

Seeing her each Sunday morphed into the highlight of my week. I often lost track of time at her bedside, talking, looking at old photos or listening to stories.

At her shiva, my emotions tumbled between sadness and gratitude as I grieved with her family. I didn’t expect to have such a meaningful connection after seeing her only once a week.

Months later, I visited another ailing woman and played jazz for her on my phone. She lay in bed with her eyes closed, and the joy on her face radiated through me. I cherished witnessing what enlivened her. We spoke very little, but each musician seemed to bond us somehow and created a special cocoon in the room where she would likely die.

“I need to rest,” she said, signaling the end of each visit. She exerted effort, reaching toward me and squeezing my hand. She smiled, and the little kid in me felt seen and valued.

Getting assigned to a nursing home brought me several new patients. One older man gave me gardening tips and asked about my life. “Want to take a walk?” he asked, and I wheeled him around his floor. He introduced me to staff and other residents, rattling off my resume and making me blush. But like a sponge, I absorbed his recognition. Several peers commented that my volunteer work must be depressing. But each time, I replied with a quick “No.” I love connecting with my patients, hearing their stories and providing a peaceful presence. Moreover, what my peers and even I didn’t understand was how serving the dying actually helped me.

I no longer feel the loneliness triggered by waiting on a sidewalk for my pretend grandma, Mrs. K. The lack of grandparents that haunted me is gone. Random people allowing me, an outsider, to visit them in their final months, weeks or hours have given me a surprise gift — a grandparent-like community. Our brief meetings have created coveted memories and, through them, healed my inner child emptiness.

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How many of you knew your grandparents? Let us know in the comments below.