14/09/2026
Sometimes, the quietest deaths stay with you.
Working in EMS means that death is, sadly, something we encounter often.
We attend the elderly who have reached the natural end of a long life. We attend those whose lives have been cut short by illness, trauma, violence or su***de. And each time, regardless of the circumstances, there is sadness. A life has ended, and we mourn that loss.
But every now and then, there is a death that stays with you.
A little while ago, I was called to a well-known retirement home in Johannesburg North to attend to a resident in frail care who had passed away.
A Nursing Sister met me and led me through to a room at the back of the facility. It was a familiar process: confirming the man's identity, completing the necessary checks, performing an ECG and filling in the paperwork required for a Declaration of Death.
But as the Sister told me a little about the man, something else caught my attention.
He was 99 years old.
His room told the story of a life that had been lived.
The walls were covered with photographs of family and friends. Smiling faces. Special occasions. People who had clearly mattered to him. Looking around that room, you could almost feel the laughter and love that must have filled his life over the years.
And yet, at the end of that long and remarkable journey, he had died alone.
Alone in a bed in frail care.
No wife or family beside him. No children. No friends. No familiar hand to hold. No one sitting quietly in the room simply because they didn't want him to be alone.
Just the photographs.
And the memories they represented.
I think about that man more often than I probably should.
I wonder about the life behind those photographs. What stories could he have told? How many people had he loved? How many birthdays had he celebrated, how many hardships had he endured, how many ordinary moments had once seemed so unimportant but had ultimately become the fabric of his life?
Ninety-nine years.
An entire lifetime.
And yet his final moments were spent with only memories looking back at him from the walls.
Perhaps that's why his death affected me differently.
Because death itself is inevitable. None of us gets to avoid it. But being alone doesn't have to be.
At the end of our lives, when we are perhaps at our most vulnerable—when we may be frightened, confused, in pain or simply uncertain about what comes next—we need people.
We need someone to sit beside us.
Someone to hold our hand.
Someone to say, "I'm here."
Sometimes there is nothing to fix. Nothing to say. Nothing that can change what is happening.
But being there matters.
So, if you have an elderly parent, grandparent, relative or friend, don't wait for a special occasion. Don't assume they'll know you care. Don't let the busyness of life become an excuse.
Visit them.
Call them.
Sit with them.
Listen to their stories, even if you've heard them before.
And when the time eventually comes for their final breath, be there if you can.
Because one day, the photographs on their walls will become memories for us.
Let's make sure that, when their last moment arrives, those photographs aren't the only company they have.
To learn more about how you can support ComMed, please contact us at [email protected]."*
Delivering free emergency medical response services in the greater Roodepoort area, parts of Randburg and surrounding suburbs
