His name was Lawrence (“call me Larry”). He was 96 years old, at the end stage of Parkinson’s with dementia. When I was assigned to visit him with a hospice nurse and another medical student during a clinical rotation, I wasn’t expecting much of a dialogue with that history.
He lived on Hopes Avenue, which felt appropriate. His family was large and Italian. We made all the introductions, their names disappearing as quickly as they’d arrived, and were directed towards a small room in the back of the house where a hospital bed had been assembled and the head of the family now rested.
There was no mistaking the vibrant light in his eyes when we entered, nor the stubborn strength that remained in his outstretched hand (“just Larry”). The other student ducked behind me stepping forward before Larry’d had a chance to shake his. I asked for a chair so I could sit at his side; my companion pulled up a walker (that sort that doubles as a seat) and made his place at mine. It was clear that I’d be doing the talking, of the two of us, which was alright – I’d felt welcome there.
As Larry’s family continued to trickle in and out of the room, I gave another introduction, explaining the purpose of our visit: to learn about his illness experience, his life, and his thoughts about the future. Yet as soon as I spoke, the script we’d been given began to slip from my mind, my words seemed so small, so meaningless…
What would you ask a man on his deathbed? I asked about when he was first diagnosed. His mouth would open ever so slightly before hespoke, his waning faculties summoning the fading control they still had over his mouth and memory. A family member would provide the occasional detail as needed, then slip back into the house; his son remained nearby on the couch. We listened to them tell stories and long for better times.
There were pictures of Christ around the room. I asked about the role that faith had played during his illness. His spirit never waned, he assured me – but what upset him most todaywas that he was losing the words to all the prayers. He’d prayed for two hours a day before this all started, his son said, smiling. Was it pride or sadness in his eyes? Larry said solemnly he now felt further from God. Then words found me – not at all my own – and I said that even if he was having trouble remembering all those once familiar phrases, they still lived on in there (reaching out and placing a hand on his heart). The brightness returned to his face, and I saw that’d been the right thing to say.
There were more stories, but as the talk wore on, it became clear that Larry was tiring. Sensing our departure approaching, I asked if he had any advice for us as we prepared for our careers. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, the room filling with silence and anticipation, for a minute, then two, and then nothing. There were tears in his eyes. I reached out and put my hand on his forearm. He took his other hand and gave mine a squeeze.
“Be kind to each other… Love your family… Do the right thing, especially when it’s hardest…” His speech trailed away.
After another quiet moment, my companion nudged me, indicating it was time to leave. Larry’s strength was fading. We rose, trying to find words that would conclude our brief moment together gracefully. He whispered something. I leaned closer, still holding his hand. He squeezed mine and said: “enjoy life.” I held his hand a moment longer, knowing this was the one and only time I’d still be able to feel the warmth within it, then pulled away so that our eyes met. Forcing a smile, I swore that I would.
As the moment began to expire, I filled my heart with all the love I could summon, and asked the God I’m not sure I believe in to be gracious with Larry and his family. I don’t know what good prayers do coming from the non-believers, but it felt like the purest thing I had to give. Our eyes lingered in each other’s gaze, then I followed the other student out of the room, knowing that this was the end of our time with Larry. “I won’t forget you,” I promised before leaving the room.
We made our way towards the door, passing the family and offering whatever condolences we could muster, then made our way from that beautifully sad house into the dawning spring afternoon. The day seemed more majestic than it had when we’d arrived; I felt as if I’d been shaken awake from a long winter’s sleep. Saying goodbye to my companion, the afternoon felt wide open with promise and uncertainty, and there we were, ready for anything…
Here I am, two brushes with death in a month, feeling alive again. I am grateful for having met you, Larry, and the example of death with dignity you have provided. Someday, as a doctor, I may be better prepared for terminal illnesses and end-of-life care; yet sharing that hour together, in that fragile space outside death’s door, I’d felt present, almost as if I’d belonged there.
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