2024 Mental Health Essay Contest Awardee: Bronze
A Weighted Wait
Jordan, New Jersey
“Instead of wasting time with those videogames, call Virtua Hospital to see if you could volunteer! It might help you get into nursing school.”
“I already did, Mom. Just to shadow, they need pretty much everything from the middle name of dad’s childhood pediatrician to your Costco membership card number.”
“Contact the local hospice then. I saw signs by Home Depot that they're desperately looking for visitors to cheer up their patients.”
Huh? Hospice? What’s that?
My trusty Google search resulted in something I wasn’t expecting — key words such as “palliative,” “comfort care,” and “life-limiting disease” pulled up.
So hospice is where the terminally ill go to live out their final days. Yikes. I don’t know if I want to do this. I’ve never seen anyone die before, let alone even know people who’d passed away. What would I do if I witness an elderly patient flatline? Or worse, how about watching someone’s beloved cancer-stricken young son take his final gasp of air through his scarred lungs? And then tending to that grieving family — what would I even say? I would need to supplement my diet with protein shakes just to weightlift all the emotional heaviness!
While mentally hyperventilating, I realized I first needed to see what hospice was about. On my first day, I was tasked with assisting Mr. L, a retired wealthy businessman suffering from stage 4 prostate cancer. Mr. L had no one who’d visit, so the volunteer coordinator ensured that I spend my entire allotted time with him. I braced myself for a smug, arrogant, colostomy bag of a human, since clearly nobody wanted to have anything to do with him.
He couldn’t be more opposite
Mr. L was everything that a grandfather should be made of, and more — kind-hearted, rough, with a sharp sense of humor. Within a month, I had grown to adore Mr L and knew more about him than anyone else in the institution. We both looked forward to our time together and the 2 hours of banter we exchanged at each visit. I can tell you his favorites: a medium-rare prime rib with A-1 sauce, The Philadelphia Eagles, a ’68 Camaro, 75% off Walmart clearance racks, and The Monkees (“even though they didn’t write their own music!”) His peeves: the entire state of California, anyone who prefaces insults with 'with all due respect', the Vlasic pickle stork, dribbles of unwiped urine on a toilet seat, and Clay Aiken.
Can you see why I love this guy?
Although Mr. L taught me to not take myself so seriously, the critical lesson I learned from Mr. L and from the hospice experience is how too many people make the mistake of placing value on materials over memories:
“When you're gone, son, nobody will think about your Rembrandt art collection, the luxury Moorestown, NJ digs for which you plunked down a cool $2.5 mil, or your 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California (OK, they'll probably remember that). My point is, my kids didn’t care about replaceable 'stuff.' I was so wrapped up with dining clients at Michelin star-rated restaurants and traveling internationally several times a month for decades that I neglected to be a present father to my own children. I thought I was being a solid provider and figured the boys would understand when they were older. But all they wanted was for me to play Parcheesi with them occasionally, attend their basketball practices, and teach them how to ride a bike, let alone drive a car. I’ve done none of that. I was always ‘too busy,’ and I barely even know them. And now my life is a physical version of Harry Chapin’s best hit.”
Umm, who's Harry Chapin?
I found the lyrics of Cat's in the Cradle, and…ouch. This was so heartbreaking that I swear I felt pericardium and ventricular tissue shred within my chest. Talk about second-hand devastation. I guess that's why our meetings brought Mr. L (and of course me) such joy — they were deep, meaningful hippocampus souvenirs that could never be simply charged on a Visa.
"People assume that hospice means you can't walk, you can't talk, you can't eat, you can't clean yourself. I've been put out to pasture ever since my diagnosis. Retired, done, and deceased to all who knew me. Death had wait-listed me, and it was only a matter of months before my number was called. But now I feel more alive than ever! I'm vivacious, and I have such a sunny outlook on life ever since you've started visiting me. I've embraced my diagnosis, and you keep me moving forward whenever you stop by. You have given me faith that even at this age, my greatest memory is yet to come! You've been like a grandson to – okay, enough of this sap. Grab me a fruit punch, will ya?"
Wow, I really have made a difference.
Mr. L has changed my life. I’m reminded of mortality, and I understand now that human connection can never be purchased. But more importantly, Mr. L taught me that hospice shouldn't be viewed as a place where the sickest are merely dumped off and forgotten about because society feels they no longer serve a purpose. Hospice patients have mental health needs too, and I'm happy to help caulk those psychological seams any way I can. I look forward to creating many more positive moments with my patients, even if they’re their last.
NIH recognizes these talented essay winners for their thoughtfulness and creativity in addressing youth mental health. These essays are written in the students' own words, are unedited, and do not necessarily represent the views of NIH, HHS, or the federal government.
Page published May 31, 2024
