You always remember your first. First pet’s name. First car. First kiss. As a hospice volunteer, I’ll always remember my first patient.
Years ago, my father-in-law passed away at the Dougherty Hospice House in Sioux Falls. The compassion and peace he experienced there moved me deeply. After I relocated to the Pacific Northwest, I knew I wanted to be involved in hospice again, so I took the necessary training and became a hospice volunteer in the Seattle metro.
Shortly thereafter, I learned about a patient who was proving difficult to match with a volunteer. His request was unusual — he wanted an English teacher. I wasn’t a teacher, but as a writer with an English degree raised in a family of educators, I asked to be considered. That’s how I met Frank.*
When I knocked on his apartment door a gruff voice barked, “You the teacher?” His eyes were cautious, untrusting. He let me in, and his caretaker excused herself to go run errands.
I asked what he hoped to get from our time together. “I want to do letters,” he said. I assumed he meant writing farewell letters to loved ones. But I was wrong.
Ready to Learn
Frank told me he had dropped out of school in second grade. He could read and write a little but avoided it whenever possible. Teachers in school had made him feel like he wasn’t smart enough, and he had come to believe they were right. Now terminally ill, he wanted to learn — really learn — how to write correct sentences and understand the words he used.
I promised to help. Each week, I’d bring a simple lesson plan and some worksheets. Our first session began with parts of speech. “A noun is a person, place or thing,” I told him. Looking around the room, he pointed out the TV, couch and a picture on the wall. “Those are all nouns,” I said. His face brightened.
Next, we talked about adjectives — words that describe. “The TV is black,” he said. “The couch is comfy.” “Exactly,” I told him. “Those are adjectives.” His eyes sparkled with pride. When I asked what the TV did, he hesitated, suspicious, like I was trying to trick him. “It plays shows,” he said.
“Perfect,” I smiled. “That’s your verb.”
I asked him to write a sentence using all three. Slowly, carefully, he wrote: The black television plays shows. It took him half a minute, and I could see the tension in his hand. When he finished, I asked him to circle the noun, underline the verb and double-underline the adjective. He did, quietly concentrating. Then he showed me his paper.
“You did it perfectly,” I told him. His entire face transformed. I’ve never seen anyone look prouder. “I’m learning!” he shouted. “You got it!” I said. “Want to keep going?”
’Teacher’s Here’
And we did. Every week, he greeted me with, “Teacher’s here!” and we’d sit together for an hour. He tackled homework assignments — identifying verbs, rewriting sentences — with the determination of a lifelong student. His enthusiasm was contagious.
One evening, he wasn’t feeling well but insisted on finishing the lesson. Despite the pain etched across his face, he pressed on. When we finished, I said, “Frank, you’re smart. You ask great questions and really understand this.”
He looked at me, startled. “Nobody ever called me smart before,” he whispered. I shrugged, mimicking his nonchalance. “Well, you are,” I replied. He smiled faintly. “I never learned from a teacher before.” I never told him I wasn’t one.
As his illness progressed, our meetings grew shorter. He’d sometimes apologize for not finishing his homework, and I’d reassure him we could work through it together. We never talked about his personal life; I never learned his last name, his former job or if he had a family. He valued his privacy. What mattered to him was learning, truly learning, before the end. Eventually, the lessons stopped. He became too sick to continue, and then I never heard from him again.
I’ve met many hospice patients since, each unique, each teaching me something new. But none left the mark that Frank did. His drive to learn, even as his body failed him, was one of the most humbling things I’ve ever witnessed.
There is no single way to “do” hospice. Every patient’s needs differ, but all share a longing for dignity and connection. Frank broke the mold — teaching me that learning itself can be an act of courage, even at life’s end.
Being his volunteer and “teacher” remains one of the greatest honors of my life. Through him, I learned that hospice isn’t only about preparing for death — it’s about celebrating what’s still possible to learn and love until the very last day.
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By Denise Page, Communications and Patient Education Partner with Avera Marketing
*Name changed to protect patient’s identity
