our greatest gift

I hadn't seen Bud in 2 weeks when the nurse called.  When I walked in his room, his grieving family was crowded around the bed.  They parted and I saw Bud's shrunken-in, skeletal looking form.  His breath was shallow and irregular. Death.


I wanted to leave.  To walk out of the room.  To remember Bud as the round, joking, slightly confused man I knew.  To find happy people to talk to.


Instead, they made room for me at the head of the bed.  I willed myself to witness the physical changes of the patient and the emotional pain of the family.   I stared at his face until I could see past the horror and find some beauty.  While the room was quiet I just watched him.  And I said to myself  "I'm not going to be scared of you today Death."


Later, the family shared stories from Bud's life.  His childhood love of bikes.  The peanut butter pies he relished each year on his birthday.  How he met his wife.  The jokes he always included in handwritten letters. The room filled with tears, then laughter, then tears again.


At one point, his granddaughter turned to me and asked "How, on earth, do you do this every day?"


Sometimes I have an upbeat answer.  Sometimes I talk about how my job lets me meet wonderful people like their family.  Sometimes I don't know what to say.


Tonight I was looking through a book my mom loaned me when I started this job.  Her underlining and highlighting drew my eye to this passage.  It reminds, redirects and reaffirms this work for me.


To care well for the dying, we must trust deeply that these people are loved as much as we are, and we must make that love visible by our presence; we must trust that their dying and death deepen their solidarity with the human family, and we must guide them in becoming part of the communion of saints; and finally, we must trust that their death, just as ours, will make their lives fruitful for generations to come.  We must encourage them to let go of their fears and to hope beyond the boundaries of death.


Caring well, just as dying well, asks for a choice.  Although we all carry within us the gift to care, this gift can become visible only when we choose it.


We are constantly tempted to think that we have nothing or little to offer to our fellow human beings.  Their despair frightens us.  It often seems better not to come close than to come close without being able to change anything.  This is especially true in the presence of people who face death.  In running away from the dying, however, we bury our precious gift of care.


Whenever we claim our gift of care and choose to embrace not only our own mortality, but also other people's, we can become a true source of healing and hope  When we have the courage to let go of our need to cure, our care can truly heal in ways far beyond our own dreams and expectations.  With our gift of care, we can gently lead our dying brothers and sisters always deeper into the heart of God and God's universe.  


Henri Nouwen Our Greatest Gift

clarity

One of my favorite patients is  Mr. Keller.  Months ago he told me stories about his work travels all over the world, and the beautiful wife he couldn't wait to come home to. Now I'm lucky to get a sentence or two from him, prompted by the pictures or treasures he has collected.  As his confusion worsens, he can't remember his wife's name, the date or where he lives.

Often the sentences I do hear from him are about guests coming over.  I get the idea that Mr. Keller was quite the host.

Today all Mr. Keller would say to me was "We need to get out the wine glasses."  I asked him how he was feeling, what he'd had for breakfast, if he had talked to his son.  But he was focused and determined.  "We need to get out the wine glasses before they come."

His caregiver and I looked at each other.  "No one is coming, he is just confused."  She whispered.  We assured him no one was coming.  We tried to redirect the conversation.  We told him the cafeteria had nice glasses.  But neither of us were going to get anywhere till he was satisfied. We looked around the little room.  At the sink were two, blue plastic cups.  She brought them to him.

Mr. Keller looked horrified.  "Oh no. We can't possibly serve fine wine in these."

We gave up.