Last week I hosted an evening activity. As I was about to take a lady in, the woman next to her said, "Can I come too?" I said, "Of course! I'll come right back and get you."
I forgot to go back. I don't remember why exactly - all sorts of things tend to happen there that demand immediate attention and force you to constantly re-assess your priorities. But the reason is not important. I simply forgot.
After the activity was done and we came back out, I saw her sitting there. I felt awful, but I didn't think it was that big of a deal. As the night went on, though, I really started to feel bad. I began thinking about how these people deserve better than that from me. That those little things are the ones for which I want to go the extra mile.
During the activity one of the nurses had apologized to me for something. It wasn't a big deal, but she felt the need to apologize. I was pretty surprised, and I respect her a lot for bothering to do it.
It got me thinking, and I decided I needed to apologize to the resident I had forgotten.
Before I tell you what happened, you should know this is the same resident from two earlier posts ("What's Your Smile-Trigger?" and "Now That I'm a Lady" from October). I think I called her Jane then. From those two posts, you can hopefully see what kind of relationship I already had with Jane. She was a very special lady - encouraged me constantly, had a monstrously joyous spirit, and repeatedly touched me in ways I cannot explain.
This is how the apology went:
Me: "I need to apologize to you....next time I'll make sure you're the first person I take in."
Jane: "There won't be a next time."
Me: "Why not?"
Jane: "I might be dead."
And the worst part is, she was right. Jane passed away last night.
She spent the week sick in bed, so there really were no more activities for her to attend. That night was literally the last one she could have gone to, and I forgot her.
But the story doesn't stop there. I went in to see Jane a couple times this week while she was in bed. She was clearly not doing well. Hooked-up to machine and whatnot, keeping her eyes closed. No one even bothered to open her Christmas presents on Christmas morning because she seemed too out of it to appreciate them.
The first time I went in, though, I realized she was singing. I couldn't make out any of the words, but it was some sort of patriotic song with a very catchy, uplifting rhythm. I wanted to hold her hand, but she had a tight grip on her blanket and would not keep it still long enough because it was constantly bouncing in beat with the song.
The next time I went in, the night before she died, she was much more still. I thought she was sleeping, so I quietly sat by her side and held her hand. She gave it a little squeeze. I sat for a while in silence, gently rubbing her hand. After a while I knew I needed to leave, but I didn't want to just walk out without saying anything in case she was awake. I leaned down close to her ear and simply said, "I love you, Jane." She squeezed my hand again, and she started breathing heavier. I could tell she was trying to say something, and she finally managed to say "I love you MORE!" in her usual, enthusiastic tone. I smiled and stayed a few more minutes.
She started to breathe heavy again and let go of my hand. I got nervous at first, but I realized she was just trying to say something else. She started slowly raising her hand up toward the ceiling (an act of great will-power considering the condition she was in) and she started saying, "I love you....." I realized what she was doing and asked, "Jane, is that how much you love me?" referring to her rising hand. She smiled a huge smile, looked me square in the eye, and said "Yes."
I wouldn't trade that moment for anything. I didn't deserve it, especially considering how I forgot her the week before. But that's Jane. I learned quite a lesson this week, and got a big helping of grace in the process. This will be a tough one to recover from.
May you find rest and joy in the hands of the Everlasting, Jane. I hope you are sitting with your son now, preparing for the rest of your children to join you someday. Have fun at the Big Guy's activities - He'll never forget you, and I'm pretty sure His are better than mine anyway. I love you.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
They Must Have Sent Him Home
On our nursing unit, it's always kind of a guessing game when someone gets sick or is passing. No one really talks about it. I don't know if it's because the staff is too busy caring for the other residents or if it's just too painful. Maybe everyone has become desensitized (a fate I pray I never encounter), or maybe I'm just out of the loop, but for whatever reason I seldem get told when someone dies or is dying. The only way I know is if I look at the daily census updates myself (which I don't see on my days off) or if I notice a certain person missing and ask about it.
Last week I noticed I hadn't seen Harvey all day. He is usually up almost every single day, often sitting in the hallway chewing gum or humming to himself. He had lots of medical issues that I won't get into, but they made him pretty uncomfortable at times. That was probably his only downfall, though, if I can even call it that. Harvey was a very sharp man, very "with it" as you might hear him described on our floor. He had some signs of dementia, like when he'd call me "Mom" after I would hand him his breakfast, but otherwise he usually knew what was going on and could carry an intelligent conversation.
Because I noticed that Harvey wasn't out and about the hallways like he usually would be, I made sure to pass by his room before I left. Sure enough, he was laying in bed with two family members at his side, holding his hand. I've been here long enough now to know that when family members show up at the bedside (especially for a person who you've never seen with a single visitor otherwise), it won't be long. It happens quick, and it happens to the ones you'd least expect.
On my way out that night, I overheard a visitor saying, "I wonder where that man was. You know, the one that's always there in the hallway. He was very bright. Knew a lot of things, mechanical especially. I would always talk to him. I wonder where he's at - didn't see him today. I bet they sent him home. I always thought he was too 'with it' to be living there. That's good he went home, he was a sharp tack."
I knew he was talking about Harvey. The description fit him to a T. But I didn't have the heart to tell him what I already knew. This man thought Harvey was home and healthy, but I knew he was lying in bed, probably in his last days, maybe even moments.
Sure enough, Harvey passed away a few days later. I wish I had been wrong, I really do.
I hate to be such a Debbie Downer in this post, especially right before Christmas (I promise I'm not a Scrooge!). But the main reason I write this blog is to share my experiences with other people who may not ever find themselves in an environment where these life lessons are so prevalent. If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm positively convinced that the world would be a better place (pardon the cliche phrase) if we would take seriously the experiences of our elders. As G.K. Chesterton said, "“I believe what really happens in history is this: the old man is always wrong; and the young people are always wrong about what is wrong with him. The practical form it takes is this: that, while the old man may stand by some stupid custom, the young man always attacks it with some theory that turns out to be equally stupid.” I think a good start to ending that cycle would be to put more weight in the stories of the generations outside of our own, whether older or younger. I digress...
I guess the moral of this post would be to not take your loved ones for granted (there's a nice Christmas message, eh?). We hear it all the time, "life is short" - and it really is. But I'm learning now that even more so, the life of a loved one can be even shorter. Maybe I should credit it to my "post-college, the-world-is bigger-than-me, time-to-become-an-adult-and-think-about-others-instead-of-yourself awakening," but you really never know how long someone will be in your life.
I know Christmas is a time that we make an effort to appreciate our loved ones anyway, but maybe this year it can be more than just "appreciating" them. Instead of just giving them a thoughtful gift or sentimental card (which is wonderful, don't get me wrong), try making an effort to really know them. Ask to hear a story they've never told you. Seek out an interest you have in common and enjoy the experience together. Share something personal and get their advice on the issue. Those are the things you'll remember if, heaven forbid, that person is suddenly not in your life someday. The thoughtful gifts can bring joy for a moment, but those memories are what you will cherish (and grow from) for a lifetime.
Last week I noticed I hadn't seen Harvey all day. He is usually up almost every single day, often sitting in the hallway chewing gum or humming to himself. He had lots of medical issues that I won't get into, but they made him pretty uncomfortable at times. That was probably his only downfall, though, if I can even call it that. Harvey was a very sharp man, very "with it" as you might hear him described on our floor. He had some signs of dementia, like when he'd call me "Mom" after I would hand him his breakfast, but otherwise he usually knew what was going on and could carry an intelligent conversation.
Because I noticed that Harvey wasn't out and about the hallways like he usually would be, I made sure to pass by his room before I left. Sure enough, he was laying in bed with two family members at his side, holding his hand. I've been here long enough now to know that when family members show up at the bedside (especially for a person who you've never seen with a single visitor otherwise), it won't be long. It happens quick, and it happens to the ones you'd least expect.
On my way out that night, I overheard a visitor saying, "I wonder where that man was. You know, the one that's always there in the hallway. He was very bright. Knew a lot of things, mechanical especially. I would always talk to him. I wonder where he's at - didn't see him today. I bet they sent him home. I always thought he was too 'with it' to be living there. That's good he went home, he was a sharp tack."
I knew he was talking about Harvey. The description fit him to a T. But I didn't have the heart to tell him what I already knew. This man thought Harvey was home and healthy, but I knew he was lying in bed, probably in his last days, maybe even moments.
Sure enough, Harvey passed away a few days later. I wish I had been wrong, I really do.
I hate to be such a Debbie Downer in this post, especially right before Christmas (I promise I'm not a Scrooge!). But the main reason I write this blog is to share my experiences with other people who may not ever find themselves in an environment where these life lessons are so prevalent. If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm positively convinced that the world would be a better place (pardon the cliche phrase) if we would take seriously the experiences of our elders. As G.K. Chesterton said, "“I believe what really happens in history is this: the old man is always wrong; and the young people are always wrong about what is wrong with him. The practical form it takes is this: that, while the old man may stand by some stupid custom, the young man always attacks it with some theory that turns out to be equally stupid.” I think a good start to ending that cycle would be to put more weight in the stories of the generations outside of our own, whether older or younger. I digress...
I guess the moral of this post would be to not take your loved ones for granted (there's a nice Christmas message, eh?). We hear it all the time, "life is short" - and it really is. But I'm learning now that even more so, the life of a loved one can be even shorter. Maybe I should credit it to my "post-college, the-world-is bigger-than-me, time-to-become-an-adult-and-think-about-others-instead-of-yourself awakening," but you really never know how long someone will be in your life.
I know Christmas is a time that we make an effort to appreciate our loved ones anyway, but maybe this year it can be more than just "appreciating" them. Instead of just giving them a thoughtful gift or sentimental card (which is wonderful, don't get me wrong), try making an effort to really know them. Ask to hear a story they've never told you. Seek out an interest you have in common and enjoy the experience together. Share something personal and get their advice on the issue. Those are the things you'll remember if, heaven forbid, that person is suddenly not in your life someday. The thoughtful gifts can bring joy for a moment, but those memories are what you will cherish (and grow from) for a lifetime.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)