Sam Visits the Hospice

On a wonderful late summer day in NYC Sam and I walked up to Riverdale from the subway station, much stopping and being petted along the way, and into the suite of one of my favorite patients at the hospice. Sam led the way; he's familiar with all the rooms we visit, but particularly this one because we've been seeing her for several months now. And it was empty, which usually means only one thing and since E. has been declining rapidly, often sleeping over the last few weeks, I was afraid we'd lost her too. But, no she had been moved to another, larger room so her companion could stay with her. He was out of the room, but she was with two of her relatives from Scotland and, although very weak, wonderfully awake and alert. Because she likes him so well, I take Sam with me almost every visit, hoping to find her like today on one hand and on the other knowing that each time might be her last. In the year we have had Sam, it's been one consolation whenever one of my patients dies if they got to see Sam the last time I visited. I don't know, it feels like a good last stage memory for them. And so it will be for E. -- I lifted Sam up on to her bed and for fifteen minutes she petted him and talked softly to him while he gave her his biggest compliment, a licking of her thin, thin arms. After we saw other patients, and before we left, once more. She was nearly asleep but rallied to wake at the promised return of Sam and again, the two of them on the bed, she petting, he licking and me just glad to be there with them.