Months ago, I decided to explore volunteering for a hospice organization.

My initial curiosity came up when I contemplated wanting to use my talents for listening and putting things into words for people who were nearing the end of their lives.

I envisioned being able to help them write letters that crystallized unexpressed feelings and, hopefully, through this process, attain a sort of peace.

I wanted to be of service, but I largely was motivated by the thought of doing something I do well that didn’t require me to market myself (something I don’t enjoy or excel at).

Although I understand that many people who volunteer talk about how they’ve benefitted, I was conflicted over wanting to be of service but being motivated by what I would get from the experience.

I let go of this notion and started researching hospice organizations, learning that onboarding could be quite involved, submitting to TB screening and online tutorials. (Oh, if only background checks for carrying an AK-47 to a mall was as thorough….)

Almost two months after sending in an application, my first shift at one of the organization’s centers, a wing at a hospital, was arranged.

I planned on performing in-home visits, providing companionship for patients or respite for family members who become caretakers, but wanted to have this experience too; sitting vigil.

Understanding that hearing is generally the last sense to leave a person, I put together a few playlists on Spotify that I could play on my phone as I sat bedside.

I had classical mixes and assembled a wonderful set of gospel tunes, from Mahalia Jackson’s version of “He’s Got the Whole World In His Hands” to Chance the Rapper’s “Blessings,” a new take on pop spiritual, but that’s not what I was called to provide.

The staff social worker directed me to visit Pete whose family was coming in later in the morning. I was told he really liked Otis Redding.

When I stepped into his room, I introduced myself and asked if I could sit and visit for a while even though I knew he couldn’t answer me. I sat by his bed and fumbled with my phone. I felt unprepared.

I babbled short acknowledgements out loud, like confirming that his family was going to come in soon, and, in my head, wished him peace.

I looked for changes in his demeanor, trying to discern whether a small unconscious body movement reflected distress and warranted a call to the nurse, as I finally located  “This is Otis Redding,” on my phone app.

His eyes were open but expressionless while we listened to “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.”  I noticed that the time he took between breaths was getting longer, but his inhalations were not labored. He wasn’t agitated. The next track started – “Stand by Me”. And then the stanza that talks about I won’t be afraid ….stand by me, played.

Maybe there were monitors at the nursing station which tipped them off, but a nurse and doctor walked into the room. The doctor put her hands on the patient’s shoulder. Pete took a few more breaths before the doctor checked his vitals and called time of death.

I felt compelled to ask the doctor and nurse a few questions about what I might have noticed in his breathing. I knew that wasn’t the point.

When I first sat down, I was worried about being prepared with the right soundtrack and whether I was a good observer and reporter for medical staff, then I noticed this preoccupation fade away.

I can’t say that my presence in the room or hearing a favorite song made a difference to him, but you just never know. I stopped thinking about myself. I was grateful for the experience.

Letting someone know they’re not alone is no small thing.

Re-printed with permission.

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