04/14/2026
“Oh no! Mr. Smith is going on hospice!? I love him!”
We hear it all the time...expressions of shock and sadness, whispered in hushed tones.
We see it all the time...looks of sorrow, pain, and sympathy.
They are understandable, but only because hospice is so misunderstood.
For Mr. Smith, though, hospice means FREEDOM.
From pain.
From unwanted ambulance rides.
From being poked and prodded in the hospital.
For Mr. Smith, hospice means FAMILY.
He has no next-of-kin and he’s been forgotten by his friends.
Now he has a nurse who calls him “honey”.
A chaplain who calls him “brother”.
A social worker who calls him “friend”.
An aide who gently washes him and holds his hand.
For Mr. Smith, hospice means DIGNITY.
He’s in charge now, not a medical system that shuffles him from visit to visit, specialist to specialist, treatment to treatment.
He says I’m good today, I don’t need a visit.
He says how often.
He says when.
For Mr. Smith, hospice means HOPE.
That he is loved.
That he is valued.
That he is worthy.
