āMy first end-of-life patient was a 97-year-old man. He had a much younger girlfriend; she was seventy-four. But they loved each other so much. Back when their spouses were still alive, the four of them had been great friends. They would double date together. And when their spouses passed away, the two of them became a thing. Every day she would come over for lunch. Iād always cook a little meal for them. Iād prepare the table; Iād lay out my little candles and my little flowers. As soon as she arrived Iād put on music and dim the lights, then Iād leave the room and go wait in the bedroom. They would cuddle and snuggle. And the beauty of it was, even though he couldnāt control his fluids at that point, she never minded the smell. Her love for him was so great that they would still kiss and all that good stuff. When the doctors said that it was time for him to go to hospice, he said he didnāt want to go. He told them that he wanted to come back home and die with me. I was with him in the end. My patients never die alone. Never, ever. One week after his passing I was hired by his girlfriendās family. She had terminal Alzheimerās, and I ended up staying with her for seven years. I fell in love with her. We were family, just family. She used to be a tap dancer. Weād sing together. And if she didnāt feel like singing, Iād sing. Even near the end, she always knew when something was wrong with me. When I wasnāt being the Gabby that she knew, she would always know. When the doctors said it was time for her to go to hospice, her children said: āWe want her to die with Gabby.ā In the final days she wouldnāt eat, sheād lock her jaw. But she would always eat for me. One night I could see the fright in her eyes, and I knew it was time. My patients never die alone. Never, ever. So I climbed under the covers with her. And she passed away in my arms.ā
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