By the time you reach your mid-40s (as I have), you have most likely had a friend or a loved one who was diagnosed with a deadly disease. We all go through many emotions when we find out someone has “cancer,” “Leukemia” or a whole host of other diseases known to be terminal. Most of us become catatonic after hearing the news that a friend or loved one is going to die—and deep down we worry that “this could be me one day.” We think about whether we should go by and see our friend. At some point, most of us rationalize that the most effective thing for us to do for both the dying person and for our own emotional stability is to just sit in our comfortable homes and pray. I know—I did that kind of rationalization, myself. I assumed that I just wouldn’t know what to say; I worried that my friend would look so different that I would just stare at her; I worried that I would fall apart to the point I wouldn’t be able to control my crying (Ok, I just plain worried).

I never spent a moment to think about
what my presence would mean to their lives.

There was a time in my family’s history when we had a “crisis,” and my presence was needed. I remember my brother Chuck telling me “the most important thing you can do is to be present.” I let those words sink into my spirit as I simply sat with the family member in need. And the truth is, just having me “present” put the person at ease and made the whole situation more bearable.

I have written before regarding my girlfriend, Yukiko, with whom I was fortunate to spend time as she was dying. My girlfriend, Sharon, and I talked with Yukiko about whether she wanted a memorial service or not. She stated she didn’t want any type of service, as only “ten people would show up.” Sharon and I were stunned by this statement. We told her nothing could be further from the truth; she was loved by so many people around the globe. We let others know what Yukiko had said, and then the miracle happened: Yukiko had a constant stream of visitors from that point forward. She even had a friend who traveled from Israel to be by her side, to tell her how much she had meant to him—he was present with her the day she died. And guess what? Some of the friends who saw her wept uncontrollably, some of them felt uncomfortable as she had lost so much weight, and some of them felt they would lose their lunch as she threw up—but all of them were “present.” After she passed, her husband John told me that he could not thank all of her friends enough: Yukiko died knowing how much she was loved.

I get asked a lot what it is like being a hospice volunteer. Without a moment’s hesitation I tell people “I love it!” This kind of enthusiasm is typically met with “but you are dealing with dying people” as if to shake me into the reality of what I am really doing. But you see, people at the end of their lives are not trying to impress you with their latest car purchase—they aren’t trying to prove to you that they are a better employee, friend, wife or husband—they simply don’t try to pretend to be something other than who they are. We can swap stories without judgments. We can tell our sorrows, knowing they are understood. We can say we love each other every single time we see each other, and not think it is overused. You see, my patients and I are fully present with one another as we understand how precious each second is. I tell everyone who is interested in becoming a hospice volunteer: the only requirement is that you love others. You don’t have to be any certain “type” of person or have a personality that “can handle it.” You just have to love others and be willing to show that love.

At the end of our lives (and for that matter, throughout our lives) we want people to sit with us, to laugh with us, to tell the harrowing tale of what happened in the 5th grade, to talk about how their family has changed, to swap recipes with us, to tell us the silly thing their dog did and to look at our pictures. We simply want others to be present with us. Yes, they are dying, but they are living too.