I met my first hospice patient during the cold weeks before Christmas of 1989. At the time, I was also shoeless, but at least I had my socks on.

Did my red socks display jolly Santas, lush Christmas trees or a host of singing angels? I don’t remember. But I recall the snow, my December breath adrift like miniature clouds and the long tramp from the driveway to a stranger’s house. An hour or so outside of Madison, Wisconsin, the brittle night air contained the smell of cattle from the barn as my steps crunched on the icy path leading to the front door.

The door opened shortly after I knocked.

“I’m Larry,” I said. “I had called and asked–”

“Yes, of course, come inside before you freeze. We’re glad you came.”

I shook the hand of a woman I’d never met. Other members of her family voiced their greetings. An unseen Christmas tree cast splinters of red and green light against the wall. Evidence of baking, maybe cookies, teased my nose.

Someone offered to take my coat. Then, after a cleared throat, one of my greeters quietly asked, “Would you mind taking your shoes off? Read More →

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