What’s it like to have your hospice nurse tell you that you might not be getting out of bed anymore? How does it feel to say goodbye to the person who’s been your spouse for the last 59 years? Who escorts you when you die? What choice do you have in how or when or where?

Today I am close to losing my hospice patient. I guess I should say that he is close. I am closer to this patient than I should be, as I decided to take on more of a volunteer role than a nursing role. Yesterday when we visited, he told us he’d be here today. This morning when we visited him, he was more alert and oriented than I had ever seen. Joking. Laughing. Then he made a joke about “going up there.”

And then as we left, he said goodbye.

Not just “said.” Yelled. A frail, sick, 92-year-old man yelled “GOODBYE!” as we left. Never before had he particularly cared that we were coming or going. Sure, he was glad to see us, and also cheerful and spirited. But he’d never said goodbye.I took note, step back into his room, and gave him a salute. He smiled widely, a giant toothless grin coming from a bald head on frail shoulds, then saluted back, and shut his eyes.

We came back a few hours later to deliver some medicine. Just a few hours later, and he was almost completely unresponsive. Just a few hours before, he’d told us goodbye.

Once again we left, ran an errand, and came back. Yet again, he was mostly unresponsive. I came to his bedside to say hello, expecting no response. Out of no where, his eyes opened, he looked at me and smiled and said hello. Everyone was shocked.

Things can be so backwards in hospice. Will he ever know how much it meant to me? As I left again, I rubbed his bald head, a tradition of mine, and whispered into his ear, “I’m leaving now. Good luck, Pat.” He nodded, eyes closed. A faint smile flickered across his face.