Close your eyes for a moment. When you hear the word hospice, what do you see?

Maybe it’s a quiet hallway. A closed door. A bed by a window, and a clock that ticks a little too loudly. Maybe it’s less a picture than a feeling: a tightening in your chest, a lowering of your voice, or sadness.

That’s understandable. Our culture doesn’t like to talk about death. We whisper about it, we steer around it, and so hospice has become a place most of us don’t want to imagine.

I won’t tell you that picture is wrong. People say goodbye to their loved ones here and there is sadness and grief, which is a large part of what we sit with every day.

But unless you’ve walked through our doors, it’s hard to know the rest of the story. The rest is that hospice is also a place full of life and living.

Let me show you.

Come down the hall with me

In one room, a baseball game is on. You can hear the announcer’s voice, the crack of the bat, the low swell of the crowd, because the man in the bed has loved the game his whole life and he is not about to miss a pitch now.

In another, a spoon scrapes the bottom of a bowl of ice cream. It’s the same favourite flavour, at every meal, because why not?

Further down, balloons bump against the ceiling. It’s an anniversary, and a couple sits close together with their family around them and cake on the table. In another room, traditions are carried out the way they have been for generations: a smudge, a traditional meal shared with the people who matter most. And in the corner of another room, a dog has climbed carefully onto the bed, and a hand that hasn’t moved much all day moves slowly through its fur.

None of this is an accident. Our nursing team gets to know each resident as a person before anything else. What did you love? What do you miss? What would make today feel like yours? Then we find ways to bring home, comfort and care into the room. Our goal is simple: to bring life to every moment of every resident’s life.

It isn’t only for the resident. Families often arrive worn thin: burned out, afraid, anxious, carrying more than anyone should carry. We create a space where they can set it down. They tell us they were blown away by how peaceful the rooms are, and by the support they receive. For a while they stop being caregivers and simply get to be together. They sit. They laugh. They make memories.

That is hospice. And no one has shown me what it can be more than Bob.

Bob

Every morning, as the elevator doors opened and I stepped into the Hospice, there was Bob, without fail, sitting in the great room with his morning coffee and a big smile. His friendly greeting and a few moments of conversation became a familiar and welcome part of my morning routine during his stay with us.

Bob did not want to be alone in his room. He wanted to be in the middle of the action. So every day he was able, he wheeled out to the Great Room to see how he could be involved. He was friendly, caring and relational. He would talk to anyone who would listen, but he didn’t just talk. He cared. He remembered the details of every conversation, and he always followed up.

He greeted people stepping off the elevator with comments like, “How’s your ankle today?” or “Did you get home on time yesterday?”

Each morning at the water dispenser, one of our staff, Michelle, would fill her big cup, and Bob would say, “Good morning, Michelle, back at the hydration station again. I do not know how you do it, I think my body would drown if I drank that much water.” It was the same line every morning. And every morning, when she turned around to greet him, he had a cup of iced water in his hand.

On one new staff member’s first shift, she was trying to figure out the ice machine, and there was Bob with open arms, ready to show her how it worked. He told her how much he loved being here.

He learned our housekeeper’s name within days and said, “Hello, Nicole!” every time he saw her. When another staff member mentioned she’d be up on a ladder cleaning her eavestroughs, he told her to be careful, and on Monday he was waiting in the Great Hall to ask how it went.

During those months, we were renovating the hospice, and Bob was there supervising and helping. If a contractor came in and didn’t know where to go, Bob could point the way. When our kitchen was in disarray and we set up a temporary spot for snacks and refreshments, he made sure that when it needed topping up, someone was on it. We called it Bob’s Corner. He loved having a job so much that we made him an honorary volunteer and gave him a badge to prove it.

The families of other residents noticed him, too. Bob made friends and connections with them, and anyone who was here during his time knew who Bob was.

He was so thankful for the care he received that he wanted everyone to know about hospice. Whenever his friends came to visit, he gave them a tour and told them all about what we do.

Then, with Anthony, our Grief and Bereavement Counsellor, who does legacy work, Bob started asking how he could give something back. Together they came up with Bob’s Run, a classic car show to raise money for hospice. Bob wanted to bring his two worlds together: the cars he loved, and the people who had been caring for him. It was a beautiful, sunny summer day as our parking lot transformed into a car show! The sound of engines revving, conversations flowing and laughter filling the air made for a wonderful day of connection and fun for residents, staff and community members alike. It was such a success. It raised awareness and $[amount], and it showed Bob’s heart.

It is amazing to watch someone who is facing the end of his life wake up every day and keep being himself, live fully despite his circumstances, and make a difference in other people’s lives. As staff, we sometimes focus so much on the difference we make for our residents that we forget they make a difference in ours.

Bob passed away [month]. It was felt throughout our whole hospice family. At his celebration of life, families who had been visiting their own loved ones here came to pay their respects. Even while facing their own grief, they had formed a connection with Bob.

His son, Mike, told us: “I truly think that him spending his final months there is one of the best things that could have possibly happened for all of us. You’re such an incredible group of people. I was genuinely blown away by the level of care from your team in my dad’s final days there, nothing could ever replace that.”

In their words

So many of our staff and volunteers wanted to share what Bob meant to them.

“He had a genuine interest in everyone he met and an incredible ability to make people feel seen, remembered, and valued. Bob had a remarkable gift for connecting with people, not just through conversation, but directly to their hearts.” — Janet, Executive Director

“After only a few days, he was already saying, ‘Hello, Nicole!’ every time he saw me. It was such a small thing (learning my name), but it meant so much.” — Nicole, Housekeeper

“His concern was so well-meaning and I am sure, that if he could have, he would have shown up at my house to supervise or do the work! So kind.”— Rebecca, Director of Finance

“He became our unofficial anchor, steering visitors toward refreshments, answering questions, and keeping the water dispenser refilled.”— Kenneth, Volunteer Coordinator

“Every morning at the water dispenser, Bob would joke about how much water I drank. It was the same conversation every day, and it always made me laugh!” — Michelle, Scheduling Coordinator

“He positively impacted the lives of all staff and volunteers, not just those affiliated with the Residence and Direct Care department. He became an honorary volunteer for a reason. Everyone loved having Bob around!”— Megan, Volunteer Services Assistant

“He has always carried a special place in my heart for the few months that I have known him.” — Valerie, PSW

“Even when I was rushing past to check on another resident, Bob always made time for a cheerful interaction. I'll never forget his million-dollar smile.” — Fiona, RN

“Every morning after a big storm, I would come up the elevator looking forward to seeing Bob with his breakfast in the Great Room. We would swap stories with all that we could see from each of our respective windows.”- Morgan, Program Coordinator

Because of you

Here is something many people don’t know. The government covers about half of what it takes to run St. Joseph’s Hospice day to day. The other half, we raise ourselves: $1.5 million every year. Our services are free to everyone, and they stay free because of donors.

That is what your support makes possible: the baseball games and favourite ice cream, the balloons and traditions and visiting dogs, a nurse who takes the time to know the person in the bed, and a family who gets to be together instead of afraid. Nothing we do, and nothing our residents experience, happens without donors who believe in this mission.

This Christmas, we’re calling it our Chain of Care. The staff and volunteers who cared for Bob, the family who stood beside him and the donors who made that care possible are all links in the same chain. Each one matters. Together, they keep compassionate care going for the next family and the one after that.. No link can hold on its own. We are all needed to keep this important work going, and to keep our doors open for more people like Bob and his family to experience this care.

Thank you for being part of it.

Will you add your link this Christmas?

Every link matters.