Aunt V. and I went to visit Aunt G. who is newly ensconced in her hospice room. The hospice is a very nice place, clean, quiet, large colorful rooms. But it’s still a place to come to die.    Aunt G. appeared tiny under the soft blue blanket made by her granddaughter, but she smiled when she saw us, and participated in our conversations. Still, when I was back at home in my own bed, I had to wonder what was really going through her mind.

What does she think about, after all her guests go home, after her family has left, or is sleeping on the other bed. When it gets quiet outside, does it get quiet inside her mind? When she has time to think, now, while she’s still lucid, does she think back over her life, or think ahead to the future? She says she has no regrets, and I’m glad. But I still wonder.

Both my parents died unexpectedly away from home. They each left home fully expecting to return to it. But Aunt G. left her home knowing she will never return. What is that like? Do you clean before you leave if you can? Do you gaze around and mentally say goodbye to favorite things? Or are you so caught up in the events that you leave with no goodbyes? When you’re finally alone and things are momentarily quiet, do you think back to that leave-taking?

Being away from home in a hospice setting was her choice, but it feels odd to me. To be taken away from everything you know, taken somewhere to die feels alien. Yet is it? Weren’t there Indian civilizations where the elderly went away to die? Does going away take away the clutter of everyday life, give a person time and space to focus on how they want to spend their last days?

So I lay awake last night and wondered. What is she thinking. What is she feeling? What is it like? I have no conclusions, only more questions. The hospice facility is a wonderful place, but in the end Aunt G. is really on her own. No matter how many of us are around her.