My Story – Anonymous
Patient: Anonymous (*All names are pseudonyms)
Residence: A Hospice Facility in Missouri
Volunteer’s Note
Marcus is one of those rare people who can turn an ordinary room into a place of warmth just by being in it. When I first met him at his room inside the hospice facility, he was listening to blues music on a small speaker. He told me, “You can tell a lot about a man by the music he chooses.”
Marcus has been living in the hospice facility for several weeks and is visited by his children. He tires easily, but when he talks about his life, his voice becomes stronger, almost rhythmic as if his memories have their own heartbeat.
Writing his legacy letter was an experience I won’t forget.
Marcus’s Story
My name is Marcus, born July 19, 1956, in Missouri. My mother was barely 17 when she had me, so I was raised mostly by my grandmother, Lorraine. She worked the night shift at a sewing factory and still managed to show up for me every single morning, braiding my hair while Sam Cooke or B.B. King played on the kitchen radio.
She taught me the three things I’ve built my life on:
- Treat people better than life treats you.
- Keep your word.
- And laugh even when it hurts.
Growing up wasn’t easy. Money was scarce, opportunities scarcer, but we made do. We had Sunday dinners with cornbread, greens, potatoes and whatever meat we could stretch to feed everyone. The neighborhood kids were loud, creative, competitive, and always outside until the streetlights blinked on.
I wasn’t much for academics. I liked working with my hands and was interested in the mechanics of tools and objects. Maybe in another life I could have been a high-tech engineer (jokingly remarked). After high school, I worked at gas stations, repair shops, and construction sites before landing the job that would define my life: driving buses for the metro system.
For forty-four years, I drove routes across the city. That bus became my moving universe. I met people from every background: nurses finishing night shifts, kids heading to school, men trying to rebuild their lives, women carrying groceries, grandparents visiting grandbabies, tourists lost and confused.
I married Denise when I was 25. She had the brightest smile I’d ever seen. Together, we raised two children, Samuel and Jasmine. Our house was always filled with noise: laughter, cousins running around, old-school music, burnt barbecue (on my part), and arguments about whether the blues or R&B was superior.
Those backyard barbecues, those birthdays, those summertime evenings were the best days of my life.
Now I live at the hospice facility. My body is failing, but my spirit is still steady. The nurses here treat me with warmth and respect. I spend my days listening to music, looking out the window at the courtyard, and thinking about the people who shaped me.
To my children and grandchildren:
Please know that even if your life feels small, it matters. You matter.
Your worth is not measured in money or success or trophies, it’s measured in the way you treat people, especially when no one is watching.
And remember this:
Kindness leaves a longer shadow than any mistake you’ll ever make.
My life wasn’t perfect, but it was mine and it was full.