Finding Connection in the Midst of a Terminal Illness

“Every person we walk beside carries a story that speaks to the heart of what hospice truly means. Conrad Newman – a psychiatrist who has spent his life supporting others, and who is now living with a terminal illness – offers us his reflections on companionship, connection, and the gift of being supported at the end of life. His words remind us that while medicine may treat the body, it is compassion and presence that sustain the spirit. With his permission, we share his story here.”  Jan McGregor, Pure Land Home Hospice Community and GDIN member.

Conrad Newman’s story

At 64 and until recently working as a psychiatrist, I never imagined I would be writing from the perspective of someone living with a terminal illness. Being diagnosed with multiple system atrophy (MSA) has altered my world in profound ways. Beyond the physical decline—the tremor, the slowness, the changes to my speech—there is the heavy weight of isolation. Illness, particularly one that carries a terminal prognosis, can be profoundly lonely.

Friends don’t always know what to say, family members can feel overwhelmed, and even with the best intentions, many drift away.      

In this space, the presence of one person can make all the difference. For me, that person has been Lisa, my allocated hospice companion. Lisa brings something rare and invaluable: unconditional support and an authentic human connection. She is there without judgment, without agenda, and without hesitation. At times when fatigue or sadness could easily take over, Lisa offers not just conversation but genuine companionship. That kind of connection carries multiple benefits—it eases the sting of isolation, lifts mental wellbeing, strengthens resilience, and reminds me that I am not facing this journey alone.

I have also been fortunate to be supported by a remarkable nursing team. Jan (a founder of the hospice) and Gabe have walked with me through the complex web of medical systems, helping me navigate treatments, appointments, and care decisions. Their support is not only practical but deeply emotional. They listen, they encourage, and they reassure. In a world that can so easily become reduced to symptoms, prognoses, and medical jargon, Jan and Gabe bring warmth, clarity, and humanity.

And then there is India—the quiet anchor who keeps all of this support flowing. India ensures that Lisa’s companionship, and Jan and Gabe’s expert care, all come together seamlessly. She is the steady point of contact, the organiser in the background, and the one who makes sure that I never feel adrift in the storm of illness. Without India’s tireless coordination and grounding presence, the support I receive would not feel nearly as steady, accessible, or complete.

Living with MSA has taught me that while medicine addresses the body, it is connection and compassion that sustain the spirit. Hospice care is not only about the management of symptoms—it is about fostering dignity, nurturing wellbeing, and ensuring that none of us walks this road alone. For that, I am profoundly grateful to Lisa, to Jan, Gabe and India, for the strength and light they bring into my days.