Danny was 59 and being cared for in the in-patient hospice Care Center where I volunteered. When I arrived at the Care Center, I asked the lead nurse if there were any patients that were alone.  She told me about Danny.  She said he’s lived alone for years, doesn’t have any family, is dying from cancer and has been very agitated since arriving at the care center earlier that day.  I asked if she thought he might be open to receiving Comfort Touch (Comfort Touch is akin to gentle acupressure on the hands and feet, and is often helpful for patients suffering from anxiety, pain or just loneliness).  She said you can try, but he’s very reserved and may ask to be left alone. 

I entered Danny’s room, walked to the side of his bed, and softly introduced myself.  Danny instinctively reached for a handkerchief and covered a softball-sized tumor on his left cheek.  As I spoke with Danny, I maintained eye contact and paid no attention to the tumor.  As I described Comfort Touch to him, he kept adjusting the handkerchief to ensure it covered up the oozing tumor on his face.  I said to him, “If you’re covering that up for my sake, please don’t worry about it.  It doesn’t bother me at all.”  He replied, “Really?”.  I said, “Yeah, really”.  At that, it was as if he exhaled a world of worries, then said, “Sure, let’s give the Comfort Touch a shot”.  For the next ninety minutes, I performed Comfort Touch on Danny’s hands and feet, and we talked about many topics including his cancer, how he began isolating himself once he was diagnosed and even more so as his tumor grew.  At one point, as I was at the end of his bed working on his left foot, Danny said “I just remembered something I haven’t thought about in years.”  I asked if he wanted to share it.  He said, “Yes!” Then he looked up toward the ceiling and recounted the memory: “I remember being three- or four-years old riding my tricycle in my driveway in Iowa and seeing the sun coming up over the trees.  And I remember thinking to myself ‘I used to be part of that light’”.  He then looked at me and said, “I’ve never told anybody that before.”  I said, “Wow, that’s powerful.  Thank you for sharing that.”  I then waited a few moments, as I could tell he was deep into the memory.  When it seemed he was ready to talk again, I said “Can I ask you a question?”  He said “Sure”.  Then I asked, “Do you think you were really separated from that light or was it just your perception at the time?”.  Danny paused, look back up toward the ceiling in contemplation then said, “I think it was just my perception at the time”. 

As my shift ended that night, Danny said he was leaving the Care Center the next day so he could die at home.  He asked if he could see me again.  I visited him at his home and provided Comfort Touch twice more before he died the following week.