Being a Compassionate Companion
Albert recently qualified as an integrative counsellor, focusing on loss and grief. He considers himself part of the death-positive movement, a natural continuation of his personal and professional journey.
Albert is also a member of the Instytut Dobrej Śmierci (Institute of Good Death), a Polish non‑profit organisation dedicated to fostering open dialogue and education around death, dying, and grief. In our latest blog, Albert explains his role as a volunteer Compassionate Companion, and what the experience means to him.
I’m Albert, and since 2023 I’ve been volunteering with Dorothy House Hospice Care in several roles that have taught me so much about presence, kindness, and the quiet power of simply being there for someone.
In 2024, I joined the Compassionate Companions team at the Royal United Hospital (RUH) in Bath—a role that feels like both a calling and a deep honour.
Albert’s journey
My path into this work wasn’t a straight one. After some personal experiences that made me reflect more deeply on death and dying, I began seeking a way to engage more consciously with these themes. Around that time, I came across Being with Dying by Roshi Joan Halifax, a book that spoke directly to something in me; an invitation to approach death not with fear, but with openness and compassion. While waiting for the next training opportunity, I continued volunteering at Dorothy House as both a Companion and Bereavement Support volunteer, spending time with people at different stages of illness and loss. Those encounters, and the simple human connections they offered, have shaped me in ways I’m still discovering.
My experience as a Compassionate Companion
For those unfamiliar with the service, Compassionate Companions are volunteers who provide support to patients at the very end of their lives. Our role follows a long and compassionate tradition of "watchers"; people dedicated to ensuring that no one dies alone. Our primary mission is simple, yet profound: to ensure that dying patients, particularly those without close family or friends, do not have to be solitary in their final hours. We also offer respite for family and friends, giving them a much-needed break from the bedside, knowing their loved one is still held in care.
The privilege of presence
For me, this role is a deeply rewarding one. Every single visit is a special experience, and every patient is unique. As Companions, we are often sitting with patients who are no longer conscious or able to speak. There is usually a great deal of silence, which can sometimes feel heavy or overwhelming, but I remind myself that this silence is simply a space where we co-exist without the need for words.
In those moments, I am called to be fully present and practice focused attention. This means intentionally setting aside my own mental chatter and distractions and letting go of the need to ‘fix’ anything. We are facing the unknown, and it can sometimes be scary or uncomfortable, but it requires me to notice the human first and limit distractions.
I don’t know much about the people I sit with, yet in that shared space, the details of their life or illness become secondary to the simple fact of their humanity. I might gently hold a hand or simply breathe alongside them. I don't know if they can hear me, but I believe they can feel my sympathetic presence. It's not always easy, but it grounds me and makes me feel profoundly connected to something bigger. It is a true privilege to be present during someone’s last hours.
Lessons in living
This experience has completely shifted my own perspective on living. The vulnerability and authenticity required by the role make me feel more in touch with the core of being. As Companions, we are asked to rely on our common sense, empathy, and a non-judgemental approach. This is crucial wisdom, for both the dying and for the living.
The reward is not in what I do for the patients, but what they, and the quiet, honest space of the vigil, do for me. It fills me with a sense of peace and gratitude that I carry with me long after I leave the ward.
If my presence provides even a chance of offering comfort to another person at the end of their life, I feel I have truly shown up for the most essential part of life itself.
Part of Life
I know that death and dying are still difficult subjects for many of us to talk about, but I also see a growing movement of people and organisations who are breaking that silence with courage and compassion. That gives me hope. Each conversation, each act of care, helps us remember that death is not separate from life; it’s part of what makes it precious.
