When Mr. Shivaji Shinde arrived at the Cipla Palliative Care & Training Centre on 10 May 2025, he was 69 years old and visibly tired… of illness, of pain, and of living. He was a known case of malignant neoplasm of the prostate and had received palliative radiotherapy to the D1 vertebra two years earlier. On paper, his admission was for pain and symptom management.
But what he was truly battling could not be measured on a pain scale.
Just a day before his admission, Mr. Shinde had attempted to take his own life. Those close to him spoke of a man who had been quietly drowning…overwhelmed, emotionally exhausted, and unable to see a future worth holding on to. His suffering ran far deeper than his disease.
The medical team recognised this immediately. Along with addressing his physical symptoms, the doctor strongly advised a psychiatric evaluation to ensure his safety and understand the depth of his distress. The palliative care team moved gently but decisively. Counselling began. Emotional support became central to his care. He was not rushed, questioned, or judged…only held.
In the early days, Mr. Shinde remained withdrawn. He spoke little, watched more, and carried a heaviness that filled the room. Yet the team stayed present…through conversations, quiet companionship, and small invitations to join diversional and entertainment activities. Nothing was forced. Everything was offered.
One day, during a casual, unguarded moment, he mentioned something small, but deeply human. He said he missed homemade mutton.
The team listened.
They reached out to his son and asked if he could bring it on a Sunday. It seemed like a simple request. But for Mr. Shinde, it became something much more.
Sundays began to matter.
He started waiting for them, not just for the food, but for the visit, the familiar presence of his son, the feeling of being remembered. That Sunday meal slowly turned into a ritual. And within that ritual, something softened. Something shifted.
Little by little, Mr. Shinde began returning to life.
He and his wife started attending the Centre’s entertainment programmes together. At first, he would sit quietly. Then he began staying longer. He watched others. He smiled…hesitant at first, then more freely. He spoke a little more. Even as he witnessed the deaths of other patients in the ward, moments that often deepen fear, he remained emotionally settled. He did not voice his thoughts, but he stayed present, grounded, and calm.
This change did not happen because his illness disappeared.
It happened because he was seen.
Through regular counselling, compassionate nursing, and the quiet consistency of the palliative care team, Mr. Shinde was slowly reminded that his life still held value. That his feelings mattered. That dignity did not end with diagnosis.
The most moving moment came during the Palkhi celebration at the centre.
Not only did Mr. Shinde participate in the puja, he walked alongside the Palkhi. He even climbed a few steps to be fully present in the procession. Days before the event, he had thoughtfully asked his son to bring traditional soula and clothes for his wife, ensuring she could be part of the celebration too.
It was a moment filled with grace.
From a man who once felt life was no longer worth living, he had become someone planning ahead, dressing with care, involving his wife, and stepping forward, both literally and emotionally, into shared ritual and meaning.
For the team, it was a full-circle moment. For his family, it was hope reclaimed. For Mr. Shinde, it was dignity restored.
This story is a powerful reminder that palliative care is not only about managing pain. It is about recognising despair, holding space for it, and gently walking beside someone until they can find their reason to stay.
We did not cure Mr. Shinde.
We cared for him.
And sometimes, that is what saves a life.
