I received a very warm response to the blog “When You Meet a Stranger,” due in no small part to the fact that my friend Deirdre posted it to her Facebook page. This blog is the flip side of the initial blog, and that is why it is called “When You Meet a Stranger’s Husband.” The names have been changed to protect the privacy of all involved.

I made a vigil visit to New York Methodist on a Saturday afternoon. Other than knowing the patient was in her 50s, I knew nothing. When I arrived, all of the signs (notebook, bag, book) of another visitor were apparent, but the visitor was not there. I sat down with my book of meditations and spoke quietly to Isabella. After a few minutes, Isabella’s husband came out of the bathroom, a bit startled to see me to say the least, and when I introduced myself by saying, “Hi, I’m Abby and I’m a hospice volunteer,” I don’t think that improved the situation.

Let’s deconstruct that seemingly innocuous yet extremely provocative sentence, shall we?

I’m Abby – Hello, I am a complete stranger sitting in the room of your dying wife. You have never met me and you don’t know how I even know about you and your wife.

I’m a hospice volunteer – Yes, that’s right, you heard correctly – Hospice. Even if you have not uttered the word, there is a whole team of people harnessing resources to help your wife through this final chapter. If you were not here, I would be sitting alone with your wife, but you are here, and you think I have invaded your space. And you think I am the Angel of Death, Brooklyn edition.

These were the unspoken words. To Ferdinand’s credit he said, “I’m just surprised to see you. This is such an intimate space.”

I admired his nuanced use of language.

We got over our initial awkwardness after I explained that I could leave at anytime, that I was here to make sure Isabella wasn’t alone. If he wanted to take a break, I would be here. He went to get some yogurt and returned about 10 minutes later and proceeded to tell me about Isabella. She was an English professor, a substance abuse counselor, and a published poet, and if I ever wanted a wild time, I should attend a convention of the National Association of Poet Therapists. He told me about their two children. When I asked about the book of poems on the windowsill, he acknowledged that the poems were his wife’s. He had me read one in particular, about her depression, which in all honesty I did not recognize as being about depression, but then again I knew it wasn’t just about cutting bananas. I read three more poems, one each about Isabella’s husband and her two sons.

At this point intimate space was being redefined in multiple dimensions: our physical space in the hospital room, the family’s history, Isabella’s poignant and devastating poetry. As I was listening to Ferdinand, I marveled at everything I was able to learn about Isabella and how this situation was in such stark contrast to other vigil situations where I was only engaging in the present without any knowledge of the past.

I stayed 90 minutes and when Ferdinand asked if I could come visit the next day, I said yes. I made five visits to them (Sat, Sun, Mon, Tues, and Thurs) before I had to leave for a family celebration on Friday and promised to check on them when I returned to town.

It’s not unusual for volunteers and family to work together, but usually volunteers are involved much earlier in the process and get to know the family in a more organic way, say, from the patient. When we are called in for a vigil, it is because a patient doesn’t have a family, or family isn’t close by, or can’t be there all time, or the family just needs a break. It is rare to have the kind of encounter I had with this family, which is to say I had never had this experience, although I know people who have.

Personally, if I were with my family watching a loved one slip away, the only stranger I would want in the room is Jack Daniels.

I appreciate that Ferdinand was open to having a stranger with them and my life has been enriched getting to know them. By the way, Isabella died the day after I last saw them. May her memory be a blessing.

Be well.