The smell was too strong to ignore. There was no hint of homemade chocolate-chip cookies lingering in the air as I had imagined. The dreary curtains and dusty furniture hindered the fantasy I had created in my mind of a cozy welcoming home. “Are you ready to meet Alice?” Katy, the Hospice Volunteer Coordinator asked eagerly. It was difficult to pay attention to her; I was focused on devising an escape plan. My scheming was interrupted by the elevator door opening to the Alzheimers and Dementia Unit.

During training to become a Hospice Companion, Katy had explained that often, towards the end of a patient’s life, they are unable to talk. The bedroom we entered was so quiet I could hear my own frantic heart beating. A lifeless body, covered by a thin sheet, was in the middle of the dark room. The patient was sound asleep; something that despite Katy’s warning, I had not expected. Fighting the urge to leave and come back another day, I gently nudged her, “Alice? I’m Amanda, I’m here to visit you.” She opened her eyes briefly then drifted back to sleep. After five minutes of uncomfortable silence I sat down. Again, I contemplated abandoning the visit, after all the woman was unconscious, who would know? Katy’s advice from training, echoed in my head, “When a patient is unable to talk, sometimes all that you can do is sit beside them and hold their hand.” I carefully took Alice’s frail hand in mine. For almost half an hour we sat in total silence. At first it felt weird to share this level of intimacy with a complete stranger, but soon I realized the silence was more enjoyable than having to force awkward small talk. When I left that first visit many things had changed for me. I understood that my purpose could be as simple as being there. Although Alice and I were in silence that first day, we were connected. We did not have to speak in order to be together.
I arrived at the nursing home for my next visit with a book, prepared to entertain myself while sitting next to a silent, sleeping body. To my surprise, I found Alice looking very much alive. “It’s me Amanda. I was here last week visiting you.” The confusion in her eyes made it obvious that she had not remembered me, and I was shocked when she replied, and unsure of what to do next. Her tone reminded me of my grandmother. We shuffled into the adjacent dining room, “Chocolate pudding beats red Jello any day of the week.” I awkwardly blurted out scanning her selections. Immediately regretting my lack of filter, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Suddenly, her tired eyes lit up “I couldn’t agree more! You should see the chocolate cakes they serve on holidays.” I was so happy to find something in common with her that I added, “I don’t need to see them, anything with chocolate I love!” Though it was challenging to relate to a 90 year old Alzheimer's patient as a healthy 16 year old, this simple similarity made it easier to ignore the differences. That day I stayed longer than I had planned to and I am grateful to have had that time to become closer with Alice during her final months.

I showed up for my next visit with chocolates, excited to have a shared interest. Proud of myself for thinking to bring the gift, I was especially perky and sung out hellos to my friends at the reception and nurses’ stations. I arrived at Alice’s room and her confused expression suggested that she had no idea who I was. I introduced myself for the third time, and Alice eagerly reached for the bag of chocolates laughing “I love chocolate!” I watched as she popped one of the small squares into her mouth. We laughed as I did the same. A few minutes later she turned over and fell back asleep. Once again I took her hand and we sat in silence. This time though, it felt comfortable. I thought about how her sickness prevents her from remembering who I am. I wondered what other information about herself our visits reminded her of. The moments I spent with Alice, laughing about our shared chocolate addiction, and exchanging stories about our lives helped me realize how much we are defined by our likes and dislikes.

Unfortunately I was not able to be there in Alice’s last moments. It was challenging coming to terms with the fact that she was alone when she passed away. At first I felt like I had failed not just her, but hospice. I struggled, but eventually had my first visit with a new patient named Bernie and after that Eleanor. Ultimately, I learned that the best way to get to know ourselves better is by getting to know other people. My experience with Alice has allowed me to become more comfortable in the awkwardness of trying new things. I have learned to connect with people over the simplest things, and realized that sometimes all we need to do is sit. So when Katy offers me a new patient, I always say yes.