What matters most is what you do between the Day you were Born and the Day you Die

By: Lynn Rosenthal. I am a volunteer with the NODA (No One Dies Alone) program here in Michigan and I am blessed to have the privilege and honor of sitting with hospice patients who are in their final days (even hours) of life but might otherwise die all alone.

For whatever reason, whether they have no family or friends, or their family or friends could not be with them, when the circumstances require a need for NODA, our organization is there for them.  We ask no questions, just show up when we are called for duty. Performing this service is, without a doubt, one of the most rewarding things I have ever done.  Knowing I am making even the slightest difference in someone’s life…at their most trying and final time…is immensely gratifying.  It literally is priceless.  To know someone did not die alone but had someone there with them is a blessing, not only for them but for me as well.

This past Friday afternoon I received a call that two patients were in need of our services.  I rearranged my schedule so I could be available early that Saturday morning to be at one of these patients’ bedside.  I hadn’t a clue on how to decide which patient I should sit with as I obviously couldn’t do both so I chose the one that was farther along in their “journey”.

When I arrived at the hospital around 6 a.m. I checked in and was directed to the patient’s room.  I entered the room and sat in a chair next to this elderly gentleman who was in his 80’s, lying in the bed, eyes completely shut, mouth wide open and quiet as a mouse except for his rapid breathing.  As I always do, I introduced myself by whispering my name and asked if it were okay if I kept him company for a little while.  While anticipating no response, I began my visitation.  Sometimes I would read to the patient, play music, talk to them or just sit there quietly.  I made the choice of what to do by how the patient was acting or reacting.

This particular patient was sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to disturb him so I chose to sit quietly by his side on a chair right next to his bed.  I turned on the radio and tried to find a suitable station.  I ended up playing some soft classical music which I thought he might enjoy.  It was calming and peaceful. Periodically, I would tell him that he was not alone, I was there right by his side.  I reassured him everything was okay and there was no need to be afraid.  He was safe.

Being a very curious individual I wondered what kind of life this man led and if he had any family.  I thought of my family and how grateful I was for having them in my life.

As I sit here in this hospital room, I reflect on the good times we had as well as the bad.  What immediately comes to mind is my beloved mom, my best friend, who regrettably was in this same hospital hospice 8 years ago, coincidentally in the adjacent room as this patient.

My mom was a medical assistant in her younger days, married my dad and celebrated their 57^th wedding anniversary shortly before she was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  She was a woman of integrity, honesty, humanity and the kindest person you could imagine.  She would visit nursing homes and pass out cards to the residents just to make them feel special and see them smile.  She would be there for her three kids and husband no matter what the circumstances entailed.  She was our rock in our family along with my father.  She had a heart of gold.  She led a difficult life growing up after her mother was assaulted by a robber and had her head bashed on the cement driveway of her home while trying to get away from the assailant.  This led to her mental decline and ultimately her admittance to a hospital wherein she stayed for the rest of her life.  My mom’s sister passed away at a young age and my mom grew up basically without a mother.

I believe there are two types of people in this world: there are “givers” and there are “takers”.  My mom was definitely a “giver”.  She was selfless to a fault.  She was the person people would go to for advice, an ear to listen, a sounding board and a friend.  She was loved by so many people.

When my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, she was more concerned about her family and how we were going to be than herself.  Ultimately, sooner than expected we got together as a family and had to make one of the hardest decisions of our lives.  We had to place my mom in hospice.  We chose this hospital’s hospice floor as my mom was too sick to move elsewhere and we were promised that my mom would not be in pain as “it would be controlled”.  We were told they were going to make my mom “comfortable”, and she was in good hands.

One of the conditions we required was the ability to see my mom whenever we could without restrictions.  Most important – we didn’t want her to be alone or suffer. My mom would have never left one of us alone should the situation be reversed and I, personally, was going to do everything in my power to be her advocate, help her in any way possible and stay right by her side.  I wanted to be sure that if she needed anything I was there to get it for her or ask someone for assistance. Regrettably, this was not the case at all.  In fact, quite the contrary.

My mom’s room on this hospice floor ended in “75”, one I will never forget.  As I sat here, almost eight years later with a hospice patient, I leaned forward from the chair I was sitting in and peeked into my mom’s old room since it’s door was open and the memories of me sitting with her for 13 long days and nights overtook me with emotion.  My mom was supposedly “unconscious” while she was here yet she was constantly screaming in excruciating pain due to her cancer progressing.  I can’t tell you how disconcerting, scary and horrific this was to witness.  This was my mom and she was in agony!

I slowly scanned her room and saw the huge windowsill which reminded me of staring out into the darkness each and every night wondering when my poor mom would breathe her last breath and praying I would be there for/with her when she did.  I remember every night leaving the hospital and driving home as fast as I could, showering, changing clothes and then rushing back to the hospital fearing I would not be with her when she passed away.  I had a broken ankle at the time and wore a walking boot.  I can still hear the click of that boot down the hospital corridors while I walked as fast as my little feet would take me straight back to my mom’s room. The memories flooded my mind as my tears streamed down my cheeks.

As I peered into that dreaded room, room 75, I saw a chair which resembled the chair I sat in while sitting next to my mom who lay in the hospital bed not saying a word. I dreaded the night as it was dark, scary, lonely and too quiet.  All I could hear and focus on was my mom sounding like a wounded animal crying out in pain.  Nobody should ever have to endure what we did…ever.

Being that I didn’t sleep much during the day, I would try to get comfortable at night by using my black down coat as a pillow and curling up in a fetal position on two folding hospital chairs pulled together.  That was useless as I came to a conclusion there was no comfortable position on hospital chairs no matter how hard you tried to find one.

These memories haunt me to this day.  I remember listening and wincing when my mom was screaming in unbearable pain (while supposedly unconscious) and how a few hospital workers entered the room and asked if everything was okay.  I nodded my head and they would leave, unable to do anything for either of us.  The feeling of being helpless at a time she needed me most was horrendous.  I was her advocate and there was nothing I could do to stop her pain despite begging the staff to please help control it with the medication.  I asked repeatedly for the doctor to order a stronger medication or increase her pain medication, something to ease my precious mom’s pain. I was told she was given all the medication they could and they would not increase the dose as it was at its highest level possible.  Again, it should be noted when we decided on this particular hospice organization we were told that she would be “comfortable” and that “her pain would be kept under control”.  Regrettably, nothing could have been farther from the truth.  Hindsight is 20/20, right?

At this very moment I turned back to my patient who thankfully was sleeping soundly, not in any noticeable pain or discomfort.  My wish for him was that he felt no pain, was comfortable and he knew he was not alone. I didn’t want him or anyone to go through what my mom did eight years ago while on this floor.  Nobody should ever have to be subjected to the nightmare she endured.  I didn’t want anyone to have to see the things I saw and heard as that was almost unbearable.  I still, to this day, have nightmares about what transpired on that hospice floor.  I wish that on no one.

I am proud to say things seem to have certainly changed over the years…for the better.  The nurses and staff could not have been nicer.  Each time a nurse or nurse’s aide would enter the room they would ask if they could get me anything.  I was genuinely touched by their kindness.  Most important, they were sensitive, gentle and compassionate with their patient.  Again, things were indeed a lot different than when my mom was admitted on this floor.

While my mom was a hospice patient there, each and every night I couldn’t help but notice what was happening all around me on that particular floor.  Whenever a patient expired, the nurse would write down their room number with a red erasable marker on the chalkboard facing the nurse’s desk.  At times, I’m ashamed to admit this, I prayed my mom’s number (“75”) would be written as that would mean she was finally free from pain.  I begged the “higher-ups” to please stop her pain and suffering.  She has endured enough.  I tried to make a deal that I would trade places with her if only her pain would cease.  Thirteen long days and nights passed while I waited for the inevitable to happen yet my mom was still hanging on for dear life (literally).  I wondered why she was being “punished” as she was THE kindest, sweetest, selfless, most giving, generous person you could ever meet.  I’m not just saying this because she was my mom; it was all true.  She was so special; one of a kind.  People loved my mom.  She was someone who couldn’t do more for you and never asked for anything in return.  Not only was she my mom but she was my best friend. We had a unique relationship, one I cherished and always will.  We shared everything.  She would confide in me and vice-versa knowing each of us would never reveal a confidence. I miss her so much and would give anything to give her one last hug, have one last conversation and hear one last “I love you”.  She was my “safe place”.

I can’t help but smile as I remembered something hilarious that happened after one of my mom’s numerous surgeries.  During my mom’s chemotherapy and different surgeries we would come up with a code word that she would reveal only to me when she came out of surgery to let me know she was really okay.  Sometimes those code words were extremely funny; other times we could not repeat them as they would floor you.  (She had such a great sense of humor!).  Sure enough after one particular surgery while my mom was in the recovery room, one of the staff members said I could go sit with her.  I entered the room and my mom looked at me with glazed eyes and apparently she thought we were alone.  I asked her if she was okay and did she remember our code word.  She mustered a smile and responded with our secret word.  Not only did she respond but she actually spoke quite loudly when she uttered that word.  To our surprise and embarrassment, a surgeon walked in the room at that exact moment and heard the code word.  Luckily he laughed and my mom and I laughed, too.  It was pretty funny but embarrassing, too! (I bet he thought to himself “what a potty mouth she has!”).

During the hospice ordeal with my mom, I witnessed patients die alone.  It broke my heart.  One night (or early in the morning), I saw a gentlemen pass away.  Nobody was there in the room with him. I felt so sad for him.  Tears ran down my cheeks while I stared at the staff packing up his things and putting them in a big clear plastic bag underneath the gurney this man was on.  I saw them placing the man in a grey body bag, zipping up the bag and carting him off on the same gurney out of the room and down the hallway.  I vowed at that time to try to help someone so they wouldn’t die alone.  If I could make a tiny difference even for one person, that is precisely what I wanted to do.  This is why I volunteer with NODA.  I am so rewarded by all the people I meet…patients and staff.  It is something I can’t explain but has made such a positive difference in my life but more importantly, hopefully in others. Talk about coincidences and “full circle”, the man whom I witnessed die when I was with my mom actually died in the same room I was in now visiting with this other hospice patient!  The only difference is this hospice patient was not alone and would not die alone.

As it turns out, my wish was granted and I was blessed to be with my mom when she took her final breath.  It was on Christmas Day (of all days), 2018. I noticed changes in her that morning and something told me that day was going to be “different”.  I felt it in the air.  I remember telling my husband this and he, too, knew something was amiss.   I didn’t cry a lot while I was with my mom but that morning my husband came to visit and I just busted out crying.  I could not stop.  He kept asking me what was wrong as he held me and I couldn’t tell him as I couldn’t articulate what was going through my mind.  I told him something just didn’t feel right.  He understood and held me closer telling me everything was going to be okay.  I begged him to go to his family’s Christmas party across town as it made no sense for him to stay with me and have both of us be miserable watching my mom die, especially on Christmas day.  My mom would always say “life is for the living” and that is precisely what I wanted him to do.  Reluctantly, he succumbed to my wishes, kissed me and left for the party.

Around 3:20 p.m. that afternoon I brushed my mom’s hair away from her face, kissed her forehead and told her it was okay to go.  I told her we (my family) would all be okay and she will be going to a beautiful place and to not worry about a thing.  I told her I loved her and I started to sing her favorite song “You are my Sunshine”.   I finished the song and witnessed my best friend, my mom,  take her final breath.  Thank the Lord, she went peacefully.  She wasn’t screaming in pain.  Her suffering had ended.  I was so grateful I was there to witness that and to be with her.   It truly was a blessing. I felt relief and sadness at the same time if that were even possible.

During those weeks in hospice with my precious mom I wanted and waited desperately for any sign that she knew I was there with her.  There were no tears, no facial expressions and I didn’t know if she heard me whisper softly to her or if she heard me talking to her during the days and nights. I was always told that the hearing is the last sense to go so I kept talking to her hoping, praying she heard me knowing she wasn’t alone.

Right after my mom passed I saw something I hadn’t seen in almost two weeks. Tears began to flow down my mom’s cheeks. I saw them and I cried.  I knew then that she was aware that I was there and she was not alone.  That sign meant the world to me. My mom knew she was not alone.

Enough with my digression.  Back to my patient at hand.  I continued my vigil with this gentleman and when my time was up I put on my coat, grabbed my purse and slowly walked out of the room so as to not disturb his sleep.  I wished him a good night, lightly patted his leg over the quilted comforter which covered him, whispered “bless you” and left his room.

As I walked down the hospital corridor towards the elevator where I came in, I was feeling a myriad of emotions and kept my head down, looking at the stained tiled floor.  I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be here one day with nobody by my side.  It made me even sadder if that were possible.

I was scheduled to come back the following day…Easter.

Easter Sunday.

Upon arriving this Easter Sunday morning around 6:45 a.m. I checked in and was given permission to proceed to this same man’s room.  I entered the room, put my belongings down and began to whisper I was back again to sit with him.  He didn’t move. To my relief, he didn’t seem like he was in any discomfort.  Again, this was nothing like when my mom was here.  Things were a lot better now which was comforting to me.  (After my mom’s horrific ordeal I had a meeting with the hospital President and the head nurse and was promised they were going to make significant changes due to the unreal experience suffered by my mom and myself.  I was told “they dropped the ball” with my mom’s care and things would be different moving forward.  I was amazed and gratified to see that I was told the truth and things were indeed different).

A few minutes passed and to my surprise a man entered the room and I introduced myself and asked if he was family.  He said he was just an acquaintance of this man’s and he proceeded to sit down.  I asked if he would like some privacy and if I should leave and he asked that I please stay.  He then started to tell me all about the man.  It was a fascinating story.  He told me that this man meant a great deal to a lot of people.  He wasn’t a doctor or a lawyer.  He wasn’t someone of great wealth.  But he had a gift of making people feel comfortable and welcome.  He told me this man rode his bicycle daily in a little suburb of Detroit called Royal Oak. He said he would eat at this little diner every single morning.  He commented on how kind, gentle and what a true friend this man was to so many people.  I learned so much about this patient in the span of less than an hour.  His acquaintance put a “picture to the face”.  He went on to tell me that this man had no family; no kids but people knew whom he was.  He was by himself but he was happy.  This gentleman pulled out his cell phone and showed me pictures of him and this man.  I was so touched that he shared this information with me.  This is what life is all about. What an impression this man left on so many people during his lifetime.  He didn’t have to have numerous people at his bedside at the end.  They were with him during his life and what a positive life he obviously led.  I felt a sense of relief at that moment.  I was relieved this man was not alone.  He had a lot of people whom he touched during his lifetime.  He left priceless memories with so many people which can never be taken away.  He mattered and made a difference. Isn’t that what is important?

The visitor then had to go and I told him what a pleasure it was talking with him and he said the same.  I left shortly thereafter as my time was up and I felt good walking to the elevator this time.  I wasn’t as sad as yesterday because I knew this man was loved and he had people who cared about him.  Again, just because they weren’t there didn’t mean they didn’t care.

When I went back on Tuesday to sit with this man, I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before.  On his window adjacent from his bed were two greeting cards taped to the window.  One was from a neighbor with a handwritten note thanking this man for being a great neighbor and person.  The other was from a friend wishing this man peace and thanking him for being such a nice person.  Those cards made me smile.  This reinforced my belief that this man left such a positive impression on people who, in turn, showed him in their own special way how much he meant to them. He was not alone but surrounded by love.

I learned such a valuable lesson in this experience.  People come to see you in your final days and others do not.  I think what’s important is letting your friends and loved ones know how you feel while you and they are alive.  That’s what matters the most.  Not everyone can be with you when you leave this world and that is okay.  You’re not defined by how many people are there for you at the end or about how many show up if there is a funeral for you.  It doesn’t matter if you are a doctor or a janitor, as long as you live your life with integrity and give it your best shot, that’s what matters.  It’s what you do in between being born and dying. We all have different journeys but in the end it’s the exclamation point you put on your life.

As expected, this man passed away at 2 p.m. Tuesday afternoon.  There was no doubt in my mind, he was loved.

For more information about the NODA program, please see this link. 
Thank you.

NODA May 30 2026
Flyer.pdf

About the Author:

LRosenthal563@aol.com
Lynn Rosenthal is a Detroit-area freelance writer who has spent three decades in the legal field. She is married to George Hunter who has covered crime for The Detroit News for over two decades.
Rosenthal and her husband co-authored “The Sadist, The Hitman and the Murder of Jane Bashara, a true-crime book about a man who had his wife killed so he could live his BDSM lifestyle.
Rosenthal also wrote “Promises of Pennies from Heaven” which is about one woman’s journey of pain and perseverance after losing her mother and father in the space of two years.
Rosenthal had also written for The Detroit Jewish News and ehospice.com.

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