My day begins with the team handover: I listen carefully to updates on the patients and their health conditions. Every detail is precious for understanding the context in which I will be working. I prepare the materials cart, choosing with care what may prove useful, and begin my rounds.
There are ten rooms. Each tells a different story, each shelters a unique life.
Rooms 1 and 2. Silence reigns. The patients are deep in sleep; I do not disturb them. I know that rest, too, is part of their journey, and I respect their time.
Room 3. A patient in the grip of delirium, the restlessness typical of terminal agitation, talks to himself. His agitation fills the space, but I choose not to intervene, aware that my presence might heighten his distress. I move on.
Rooms 4 and 5. “No thank you, I’m not interested in your activity — I’m truly hopeless at drawing!” — a response I hear often. I try to explain that it is not only about drawing: there are materials of every kind, images to observe, colors to explore. Some let curiosity take hold and accept; others thank me politely but say they are not in the mood. I always accept, without pressing.
Room 6. “I’d like to, thank you, but I’m too weak… maybe tomorrow.” A gentle refusal that carries a trace of hope. I will return tomorrow or in the days that follow, trusting, without insisting. Willingness can change.
Room 7. Here, pain is palpable. The family is gathered around the bed of their loved one, who is in the final moments of life. I choose not to enter. This is a sacred time to be respected.
Room 8. Here too there are visiting family members. They bring sweets, laugh softly, seeking a semblance of normalcy. I do not wish to interrupt those precious moments of intimacy.
Room 9. The patient stares absently at the television, apathetic, showing no interest in his surroundings. I try to approach, but a wave of the hand turns me away. I respect it; I do not insist. One is not always ready for something new.
Room 10. Here I find Gemma. She has been waiting for me; her face lights up the moment I enter. It is in these moments that I grasp the meaning of my work, the value of being present, of building a small connection.
This daily round is not merely a routine: it is a journey through the emotional and relational complexities of the hospice, a mosaic of stories woven between life, suffering, and art. Into every room I carry with me the awareness that every encounter, however fleeting, carries weight, its own dignity, and leaves a trace.