Gifts From the Dying
“I don’t know how you do it.” It’s a line that all of us who work in end-of-life care have heard countless times. We each have our own arsenal of cliché responses to fire back. Something like:
“It’s a privilege to do this work.”
“It’s a rewarding occupation.”
“There are good days and bad.”
“Oh, it’s just a part of the job.”
If we’re being honest, some days I don’t know how we do it either. While hospice work has afforded me some of the most meaningful moments, there have also been days when it took everything in me to keep the tears at bay (at least until I got to the familiar confines of my car).
Working in hospice has taught me far more about life, than it ever could about death. The following is a mere glimpse of the “gifts” that the dying have unknowingly bestowed upon me.
“This was a hard lesson learned firsthand through my own father’s hospice experience.”
Time. There is never enough. This was a hard lesson learned firsthand through my own father’s hospice experience. For the last five years of his life, we had grown more and more distant in our strained relationship, nearly to a point of estrangement. Then he fell ill. Within a week we had a diagnosis of stage 4 stomach cancer, with a metastatic liver, lungs, and lymph nodes, and two weeks after that – Thanksgiving Day – he was gone. The irony of it all is baffling, but I can truly say that I was thankful that year; thankful for the three weeks I spent by his side, despite the time squandered. Death is a sobering reminder of just how limited our time truly is, and I am all the more convinced of the need to spend it well.
“I’ve shared more laughter than tears in my hospice work.”
Humor. True story: I’ve shared more laughter than tears in my hospice work. Whether it’s a way of coping or the retelling of a funny story shared by a family during life review, the laughter is a gift. I appreciate those elderly patients who simply tell it like it is. I once wore a black and white striped shirt to work and when I entered John’s room, this patient greeted me with laughter and proclaimed, “You look like you just broke out of jail!” Or, that time sweet Vivian left me with this parting thought: “You come back and see me with your big, black eyes.” I most certainly did; many times. And it was during our time together, I used these big, black eyes of mine to clearly see her gifts of humor, kindness, and joy.
Self-Determination. Jeff spent his career as a physician and directed his own care, right up until the very end. Delight invited me in at every step to document her wishes as she lived out her days, planning for the end. Dad was given the choice of vanilla or chocolate ice cream, and he chose strawberry. Big or small, the self-determination of my patients has shown me that there is no one-size-fits-all approach to care. They are, and ought to be, the drivers of their care. Their illnesses are simply the vehicles that escort them to their final destination, and we are privileged to be along for the ride until the gas runs out.
Devotion. Speaking of his wife of 62 years, Richard challenged me with this thought: “When you stop discovering about each other, that’s when you stop living.” He was determined to keep learning and growing with her, even after all these years, and despite his cancer diagnosis. This was just one of many couples whom I’ve met along the way who depict devotion in its most literal form. No couple is perfect and length of marriage is certainly not a measure of love, but the devotion demonstrated by these couples is inspiring and something to be celebrated. It is a gift to bear witness to this commitment the a vow beautifully upheld, “Till death do us part.”
“Dad was given the choice of vanilla or chocolate ice cream, and he chose strawberry.”
Community. I’ve stood on the sidelines in homes overflowing with people at the time of a patient’s death, an indication of the community they have built. I’ve also been the only one in the room when a patient took his last breath, knowing full well there was not a single person of significance to notify of his death. The disparity is disheartening. Even still, I am all the more compelled to build my community with purpose as I choose to surround myself with people who help me live my best life. We only get one shot at this thing, and I’m personally committed to doing life with those I love.
Friendship. Some of my deepest friendships have blossomed through the shared work and service to patients in hospice care, or the bereaved they leave behind. Aside from spending many hours working alongside these comrades in care, there’s a little extra something that bonds those of us who toil together in the trenches. Whether it’s an after work happy hour, the gesture of surprise coffee to start the day off, or a hug through the tears in the hallway of a patient’s apartment complex, we need these moments; we need these co-workers, who become the best of friends.
I realize now it’s time to put an end to the clichés. When someone says, “I don’t know how you do it,” I can honestly say:
“This work is a gift. Though surrounded by death, there are gifts to be paid forward in how I choose to live. My patients teach me more about life than they ever could about death.”
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