The Magic of Hospice....

My name is Mark Lombard and I am a Hospice Volunteer. 

When I started volunteering, I thought hospice was about helping people let go.  I was wrong…they were teaching me how to “grab on.” Consider, if Life is the greatest gift of all, then living Life fully must be the second greatest. 

I lost one of my best friends in the wee hours Friday morning and I am very sad. And yet, our relationship reveals a truth about the human condition and what I call the “magic of hospice.” 

I guess I’ve known Milton going on 5 years now. Most people think that folks in hospice live only a few days or weeks or months. Maybe most do. Or maybe I’m lucky, because more than a few of my relationships have lasted well over a year. My friendship with Milton goes back a way. 

Thirty years my senior, we couldn’t be from more dissimilar backgrounds, Milton and I. He, a sharecropper’s son from poor East Texas who worked the cotton fields next to his Daddy as a youngster. I, a well-educated doctor’s son born into a life of privilege and raised in the rich green cultures of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. 

Milton’s grandmother was the granddaughter of slaves; my grandmother came from a long line of patriots and Daughters of the American Revolution. 

Milton worked for many years in janitorial service at a local university. I directed admissions for many years in university administration. He may have been coming to work when I was going home. Milton has kids and grandkids and great-grandkids. I don’t. 

Whatever our differences, we shared much in common – a deep love, respect and appreciation of God, of family, and of country. And one day we discovered (as once suggested by a wise philosopher) that “we used to be different and now we’re the same.” 

Milton was a deacon at his church and spoke Holy Scripture as if he wrote it. Uncanny was his ability to generate passages that just so happened to pertain to my personal issues; so astoundingly accurate was he in citing ‘bulls-eye’ verse that I would sometimes bring friends over and watch their faces as he targeted their unspoken issues. Maybe he was psychic, maybe he was moved by the Holy Spirit, whatever the source, the wisdom coming from Milton’s mouth was a perfect fit for troubled minds around him. 

Milton taught me how to pray both humbly and out loud. Our sessions always ended with him leading an all-encompassing ten-minute prayer that asked for divine intercession in matters near and far. With Milton being so devout, I especially enjoyed the never-ending challenge of arranging his weekly church visits using public transportation. Although his physical impairment kept him from walking for years, there was a time when his electric scooter got him where he wanted to go (with a little help from his friends).

And then his batteries started running low. Milton greatly valued his mobility and independence; during his latter years, he would often confide in me that, “all I wish is to get out of this chair and walk across the room.” Yet his prayers were answered in other ways.... 

I remember sitting with Milton on hot summer days in South Dallas under a big, shady tulip tree and whiling away the hours talking about his adventures “coming up.” It was like I was given a front row seat looking back into the ’30s rural Texas forward, reliving history through his remarkable life. Food tasted different back then, he insisted, watermelon was juicier plucked right from the field, and milk was sweeter squirted straight from the cow. He would talk about being poor and not knowing it (“a poor man who’s happy with what he’s got is far richer‘n anyone with money”), and he reminisced about the freedom and simplicity of country life, being able to fish and hunt and do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. He was free back in the day. Milton lamented the confining complexity of today’s big city life almost as much as his physical condition. 

Milton talked about how proud his Daddy was of him when he picked a bag of cotton bigger than himself. Nothing made him happier than the thought of his father’s pride in him. The sheer joy he derived from doing a hard day’s work for most of his life were part of the strong values surely passed down through his family. And speaking of family, peppered around Milton’s living room were photos, some quite old, of all kinds of relatives, and he could tell you about second cousins and third nieces as if they all still lived under the same roof. 

Sometimes, Milton told stories of the juke joints of his early adulthood. Some of his personal history was terrible, he suffered greatly, but most of it was very good. And he talked of his loving his wife, Alice, and how lucky he was to have her. All his family members were cherished; nothing lit Milton up more than visiting kin walking through the door! 

Once a week, more or less, Milton and I shared our lives with each other, sometimes boldly, sometimes intimately, and always without reservation. He mostly talked, I mostly listened. And then, one day, it happened. 

Out-of-the-blue, I looked squarely into his soft brown eyes and said, “Milton, I love you.” 

He got very quiet. I wasn’t quite sure of how he would react...maybe my admission was a mistake. Then a big smile spread across his generous face and he said to me, “I love you, too! I thank God for you! You keep me strong! You keep me alive! You are a true friend and I thank God every day for you...” and these words, spoken directly from his heart, swiftly pierced mine, and I could not, nor would not, hold back an unexpected deluge of tears. Sobbing deeply, I placed my head in Milton’s lap, and he softly stroked my hair while continuing his song of appreciation...I have never felt more acknowledged and fulfilled in all my life. 

Albert Schweitzer once mused that the tragedy in life is not that we die; it’s what dies inside us while we are still alive. Milton and I lived out loud that day! Perhaps the magic of hospice is that end-of-life presents a special opportunity for people to create a sacred space and dance with the Divine by restoring and reviving “that which has died inside us,” a mutual contribution in which we celebrate being young and beautiful and wholly alive again. In this space, people who may think that they are as different as night and day suddenly discover that they really are the same. You see, Milton’s words to me exactly mirrored my sentiments toward him. He exactly expressed my gratitude to God for bringing him into my life. It was Milton who kept me strong, it was Milton who kept me alive and aware of the awesome and precious gift of life. His Self- expression was my Self-expression. We are one and the same, bonded by humanity, in God’s great glory! 

My sadness over Milton’s demise will pass and, until it does, I will savor it. Strangely, it’s a joy to be sad when I’m sad. My grief will no doubt be replaced by honor that will last my lifetime. Gee, I was lucky to have had him in my life! We will surely meet again. 

Thinking of his trials and tribulations these past many years, I am reminded by another great man’s declaration: “Free at last, free at last, thank God I’m free at last!” 

- Mark Blair W. Lombard, Hospice Volunteer, 2015 

Award Winning Essay at C. C. Young Senior Living, "Where the Spirit Is Ageless"