You Say Good-Bye, and I Say Hello

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.   

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock

This week’s topic comes from Froggie, who said:  It’s all a matter of perspective.  She asked us to take a story that, on the surface seemed “negative,” but to tell it from a positive point of view. 

                  Funny thing, I had just the story, and its beginning had taken place the very day Froggie gave us our topic.

                  Our suburban school doesn’t have a carpool lane.  It provides bus service for only a handful of the kids, requiring the rest of the families to supply their own transportation.  Parking is limited to a few side streets; for that reason, pick up occurs on the playground behind the school, dozens of parents (mostly moms) walking over to escort their kids home.  We stand in groups as we wait, and we talk about random stuff:  the school, television shows, the kids, what we did all day.  Whatever.

                  That day’s topic was the weather, which had been especially nasty and was at that moment throwing more snow in our faces.  As we stood on the playground, freezing, griping, one of the moms complained that she’d forgotten her hat in her hurry to get to school before the bell rang.  I commiserated.  I told her that I’d left the house in a similar state earlier that morning:  no hat, no gloves, no scarf.  I’d rushed to drop the kids at school and then rushed over to the place where I volunteer.  When I blew through the door at the facility, a chilly wind following me inside, the woman at the sign-in desk noticed my not-exactly-ready-for-winter outfitting. 

                  “Look at you with no hat or gloves,” she’d teased.

                  I’d rolled my eyes and shaken my head, acknowledging my forgetfulness.  I’d blamed it on trying to ready two kids and myself as we raced out the door.  Someone invariably misses something.  That day, it was me.  And I’d missed many things.

                  The playground mom laughed knowingly, shivering but smiling while the wind blew her uncovered hair. 

                  “Where are you volunteering?” she asked.

                  “For a hospice,” I said.  “I’m a patient volunteer.”

                  The mom’s smile faded and she got a funny look on her face.  She stuffed her hands deep into her pockets and shuffled her feet to keep warm, and she said, “Wow.  Wow.  That must be just so . . . depressing.”

                  I looked at my friend for a long moment.  I’ve known her for several years (our 7s are in the same class and have been for three years), and she’s one of my favorites.  She’s a not-currently-practicing attorney, like me, and she hates winter, like me, and I know for a fact she spent the last several years working for a major philanthropic organization, helping decide which deserving charities merit funding.  Maybe for that reason, her response surprised me.

                  I smiled and shook my head.  “No,” I said.  “No.  It’s not.”  I paused.  “Not at all.”

                  She looked me in the eye, and cocked her head to the side, surprised.  Skeptical. 

                 

                  “Really?” she asked. 

                  “Really,” I said.   

                 

                  I know she wanted me to say more, to explain myself.  And I would have, gladly, but my 10 ran up for help getting something out of her backpack.  By the time I finished, the 7s had come out, and we had to leave for a doctor’s appointment. 

                  Here’s where the perspective comes in.

                  I really shouldn’t have been surprised by my friend’s reaction.  I understood.  As they say, perception is reality, and the common perception of hospice is not exactly welcoming.  Hospice sounds depressing, almost by definition.  Hospice means death – period.  If hospice had a symbol, it would be Michael, the archangel of death.  Hospice suggests loss of hope.  People hear the word “hospice” and they begin mentally counting the weeks or even days until the funeral.  Hospice means the end.  The end.  The finality we all avoid and fear.

                  That was my perception once, too, and not so long ago.  But thanks to some excellent training and a little experience, my understanding has shifted.  My perception has changed because I’ve met the reality.  I now know hospice isn’t about death; it’s about end of life – and there’s a difference.  Hospice is about dying peacefully and with dignity.  It’s about support and care and comfort.  Hospice is full of hope:  for a peaceful passing, for independence, for quality over quantity of life. 

                  There were many things I wanted to tell my mom friend, had I the chance.

                  I wanted to tell her that, just the day before, I’d held the hand of a dying woman; that I’d just sat there, quietly, and watched her breathe.  I wanted to tell her that I’d never been so present, so in the moment, in my life.

                  I wanted to tell her about my patient’s room, how there are no tubes, no monitors, no beeps or drips, no fluorescent lights, no screaming codes.  There is a well-tended houseplant and a radio that softly plays classical music.  And there is blissful quiet.

                  I wanted to tell the mom that I’d sat with the patient’s former neighbor, herself 94 years old, and watched her clutch her old friend’s hand, tears rolling down her face, and tell her she was loved.

                  I wanted to tell that mom that as the friend left, she said, “See you later, alligator,” and my patient, a usually silent 92-year-old woman with end-stage Alzheimer’s, said, without hesitation, “After while, crocodile,” in a voice so strong, we couldn’t help but laugh with surprise and joy.

                  I wanted to tell that mom how I’d listened to a hospice chaplain – a big, gentle rabbi – sing Edelweiss in his deep baritone, while my patient watched him with round, quiet eyes. 

                  I wanted to tell her how the patient’s day nurse insists on personally giving the woman water, small spoonful by small spoonful, because the nurse doesn’t want her to drink too quickly and choke.  Because she cares.

                  I wanted to tell that mom that every single person I have met through the hospice, from the CEO through the medical advisor to the music therapists, have been the most caring, dedicated, enthusiastic people I have ever met in any setting. 

                  And perhaps one day I will tell her those things, if the time is right, if she wants to hear them.  But will she really hear them?  Will I change her perspective?  Maybe.  I don’t know.  Perhaps she will have to see it for herself.  But, even then, she may not be open to seeing my reality or adopting my perception.  It is, after all, uniquely mine.

                  Even though I would not describe hospice as depressing, I will concede that it carries great weight.  It feels heavy.  A few days after my playground encounter, I made the mistake of visiting my patient – now much weaker and sleepier than just two days earlier – one short hour before my husband and I were set to attend a birthday party.  I spent the first half hour or so of the celebration feeling a bit disjointed; a side effect, no doubt, of having swapped the calm, quiet hospice room for the noisy, crowded space in the back of a Mexican restaurant.  I’ll admit that, as I watched the birthday girl (that day turning 40) as she smiled and moved from guest to guest, I considered how young she seemed, her vibrant image standing in stark contrast to the one of my patient, pale and small and tired.  But I didn’t feel depressed or sad.  I felt present.  In the moment.  Thoughtful.  And grateful to have been included in my young friend’s celebration.

                  That evening, before I’d left my patient’s room, I’d kissed my hand and gently placed it on her forehead.  I’d smoothed her hair and said, “I’ll see you soon, sweetie,” even though I didn’t know if I’d again have the chance.  She opened her tired eyes wide and whispered, “Thank you.” 

                  No, friend, I wanted to say, thank you. 

Postscript:  My patient passed on January 13, 2014, at 12:37 p.m.  I had the honor of being with her when she passed, peacefully, her son holding her hand.  I am grateful to her family for allowing me to share her journey through its end.