In every moment: Reflections from the garden

When I began volunteering at the hospice a year ago, I thought I understood what I was stepping into - a place where sadness loomed heavy in the air, where people came to say goodbye. But what I found was so different. I found the hospice to be a regular home filled with warmth, laughter, and life. Here, our guests are not patients; they are people with rich stories, love, and a quiet dignity. And they are here not to wait but to live in the time they have left.

One guest who touched me deeply was Ms. Martina. She came to the hospice with a diagnosis of end-stage cancer, and she accepted her fate with such grace and courage that she inspired everyone around her. The calmness with which she faced her fate was not only a testament to her courage but also to her profound inner peace. It was as if she had made her peace with the threads of destiny, embracing her journey with an open heart.

I remember my early days with her. Once, while helping her from her wheelchair to her bed, I fumbled. I struggled to support her, and in a panic, I called for the nurse. I felt mortified and unfit for the task. But Ms. Martina, with her gentle smile, reassured me. "It's okay, dear, you're learning," she said softly, her voice full of patience. The nurse arrived and guided me. We managed it together. There was no frustration, no impatience - only kindness and understanding from Ms. Martina and the nurse. The nurse helped me understand that it's okay to make mistakes as long as you keep trying.

One afternoon, I took Ms. Martina to the garden in her wheelchair. It was a bright day, and the flowers were in full bloom. We sat there, surrounded by the vibrant pink and green colors and the gentle rustling of leaves, and we talked - really talked. She spoke of her life's wishes, her regrets, and her achievements with a clarity and honesty that left me mesmerized.

I had never experienced a conversation like that before. As I listened, I realized how rare it was to share such an intimate moment with someone. I didn't know it was possible to connect so deeply with someone I had only met twice. We talked about the things she wished she had done differently and the things she was proud of.

She said she regretted not taking more time for herself, not traveling more, not being more daring. "But then again," she added, "who doesn't have regrets?" I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that day. I was grateful to Ms. Martina for sharing her story, for trusting me with her memories, and for showing me that even in the face of death, there is so much life to be lived. It was a privilege to sit there, holding her hand, sharing her burdens and happiness.

Ms. Martina spoke about the work she used to do with pride. She loved helping people relax and find comfort, something she continued to do even in her final days, simply through her presence. But what she cherished even more than her work were children - especially her grandchildren. Her face would light up whenever she talked about them, her voice filled with love and joy.

A few days before Ms. Martina passed, a group of children from the local church came to sing for her. I was not there to witness it. I only heard about it from the nurse, who told me how Ms. Martina lay in bed, smiling softly as the children's voices filled her room. I could imagine it vividly - the warmth of the moment, the music lifting her spirits in a way that no medicine ever could. It comforted me to know that Ms. Martina, who loved children so dearly, had been surrounded by their innocence and sweetness in those last peaceful days.

Volunteering at the hospice has been one of the most transformative experiences of my life. It's not always easy; I've made mistakes, feel overwhelmed, and sometimes wonder if I'm making a difference. But Ms. Martina taught me that perfection isn't necessary - what matters is showing up, offering kindness, and being present in the small moments. Even though I didn't see the children sing for Ms. Martina, I felt their gift to her in my heart. And I was reminded of how simple acts of love can make such a difference. And I hope Ms. Martina's story inspires more people to volunteer. You don't need to have all the answers or be perfect. You just need to be there, willing to listen, to help, and to share in the journey of those living their final days with grace. Because in the end, it's not about saying goodbye. It's about being part of someone's final chapter, offering them a little more peace, a bit more joy, and a lot of love. It's about accepting, as Ms. Martina did, the way life unfolds and finding beauty in each thread of destiny.

Note: Ms. Martina's name and some details have been changed to protect her privacy.