Growing up, I was fortunate to have an unquestioned, unwavering sense of belonging. My family, as all families, was dysfunctional in many regards; however, I always felt wanted, loved, and known. Being "known" is something we often take for granted. Our family and friends help us recount and relive the important moments of our lives because they shared in those moments. Family stories are passed from generation to generation serving as testament to amazing journeys. Our shared history, our common experiences, and life-long relationships provide a sense of security. We are known.

My godmother, Aunt Jane, was the person who taught me the importance of being known. No surprise, Aunt Jane was a teacher at heart. She taught me how to smoke and drink at a very young age much to my mother's chagrin! Yes, Aunt Jane was my personal "Auntie Mame." She traveled the world. She was the life of any party. She disliked rules. She had the most gorgeous legs I have ever seen! She loved deeply. She laughed loudly. And she thoroughly enjoyed life! As you can imagine, Aunt Jane had countless stories about her travels and adventures. How I loved listening to her "remembering" with my parents, her husband, and other close friends. She was known by many and loved by most. She belonged.

The risk of longevity is solitude. Aunt Jane realized this risk not by design. In fact, she did everything she could think of to pre-decease her friends. In response to her doctor's recommendation to quit smoking and lose weight, she responded, "I am going out of this world smoking, drinking, eating, and laughing all the way to Heaven." So you can imagine her annoyance when she outlived her immediate family and dearest friends.

One afternoon when I was visiting Aunt Jane in a nursing home in West Texas, she strongly advised me to figure out a way to die BEFORE my friends. She said, "It's so lonely being the last one. I don't have your mom to laugh with about the silly things we used to do. And the folks here, they don't know me. My stories don't mean anything to them." As I sat and held her hand, I felt her overwhelming sense of isolation. She no longer felt known…she no longer belonged.

It wasn't until many years later that I experienced a similar feeling of not belonging…not being known. Aunt Jane suffered a series of small strokes which resulted in vascular dementia. I witnessed her progressive demise over a period of years. I will never forget the day I visited her and realized she did not know me. There was an emptiness in her eyes. A lack of recognition. I wanted to scream, "It's me! It's Janie! I am your name sake. You MUST know me!!!" But I didn't scream. Instead, I grieved the loss of being able to "remember when" with Aunt Jane. And I longed to be known once again.

As a hospice chaplain and palliative care educator, my experience with Aunt Jane serves me well, professionally and personally. I am much more aware of and sensitive to the need every person has to be known, to feel as if they belong. As I listen to the stories of those facing the daunting journey of Alzheimer's disease, I realize both the care receiver and the caregiver will not be known at some point. By necessity, a different relationship evolves. In the case of Aunt Jane, I had to accept a different way of being known. She no longer knew me as her name sake, the daughter she never had. Instead, she knew me as "that nice lady" who came to see her. We could no longer "remember when" in the traditional way. But when I held her hand and listened with my heart, I once again felt known.

"Knowing" someone transcends cognitive recognition; there is a "knowing" rooted in the heart which defies explanation. At times, we must approach another person with no expectations to allow the "knowing" to emerge. It is amazing what can happen when we lead with our hearts.


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