Seeing that Mother’s Day is just around the corner, I thought I’d write about the beauty and power of a mother’s love. Dee was in her mid-fifties when admitted to
I’m stepping out of my normal format this week. I’m not writing about a hospice patient; I’m writing about Charlie. I’m writing about one of those short-lived personal encounters that
Joyce was referred to Hospice with end stage liver failure. As the hospice social worker it was my job to meet with Joyce to reach a mutual decision about whether
Luanna enrolled in our outpatient hospice service with terminal cancer. Luanna and her husband, Henry, are modest, temperate folk. Henry is probably a little more temperate and it is Henry
Ronnie was forty-five when he enrolled in outpatient hospice services with end stage cirrhosis of the liver. Ronnie had lived with his sister, “Net”, for thirteen years, but Ronnie spent