Again, Newport Menthol

He asked if I was drifting away from him, he felt like I had been distant lately. I assured him he was mistaken, our relationship had not changed. I was there for him, just like I had always been.

Relationships at the hospice are all different, some residents grab you from the start, sometime with a specific reason, and sometime just because. I’m not sure why we connected so quickly and deeply, but from the beginning he held a vast space in my heart that simultaneously worries and consoles me.

Worry, because I know the outcome of this relationship. Console, because in spite of it all, I’m glad that it’s him. His likes, dislikes, moods, manipulations, laughter, and sorrow. I know him, I see him.

I’m not drifting, I’m not running, I’m standing still……What he can’t see yet, is that it’s him leaving me. He’s drifting, and it’s his distance he feels, not mine.

It’s okay, I’ll take the blame. He’s not quite sure what lies ahead and I’m silently, hopefully, optimistic. He has come so far from where he started.

Maybe, possibly, he will be my little miracle

Which Way is West?

So.
How did it get to this point?

When did my closest friends become distant acquaintances with nondescript conversations, highlighted by pregnant gaps in conversations that used to flow so effortlessly? When did I lose them? And why am I just realizing that almost every relationship in my life is stretched past breaking point.

All relationships from the hospice, that is, everyone inside: residents, staff, volunteers, get it. No words necessary, but outside, that's a different story.

At first, I talked to them, I told them my experiences, I tried….but at some point, you realize, no one really wants to hear. They can’t truly understand and so you just stop. You say very little, and when asked, you just shrug your shoulders and talk around it.

BUT, you live it. It’s your life. It becomes so much more than you ever thought it would, living in a parallel world where sickness, death, and sorrow rule. But, also, redemption and generosity and true goodness illuminate the dark corners. You get to see the worst, but sometimes you catch a glimpse of what angels must look like before they get their wings.

AND, you have no one on the outside to share that with. No one to call when the resident that you just wrote about….You know the one? From a couple of weeks ago, who made you pause at how destroyed his body was. When you weren’t quite sure if you could handle it, but sucked it up, did what you needed to do, and found yourself sitting with him, at the end, holding his hand as he cried.

He’s dead, and no one from the outside even knew his existence.

I don’t know how to be with my friends who knew me before, I’m never quite sure what to say, My life is so different, my experiences are damn near impossible to understand, so I just stop calling. I stop talking; I disappear for weeks because I don’t know how to navigate my world with theirs.

They say I’m distant, I kind of think they leave me no choice.

Don't Know

AND this is how the light gets in.

Love, laughter, hope, forgiveness, self-forgiveness, love for the person you’d rather cross the street than walk by.

Stillness, stillness, stillness, silence from the knowledge that your actions have made words unnecessary.

Faith of purpose.

Unseen acts of kindness that pause time for you and them.

And tears, and tears, and tears.

AND this is how the light goes out.

Hatred, self-hatred, self righteousness, hopeless frozen in helplessness. Anger with no place to put it.

Lost with a map showing you the way, alone in your heart, split open and unseen

Self disgust

Gagging on words you’d rather swallow than say, until they lay siege. Spread their seeds, take root in the emptiness of your hungry belly, because you forgot how to nourish, how to breathe, how to live without fear.

Fear – that’s how the light goes out. Always, every time, everything, comes back to Fear.

Goodbye, Hello

A new patient at the hospice usually means another patient has died.

I walked over to his room and introduced myself as I’ve done countless times with numerous patients. He was sicker then most of the other residents in the hospice. Their decline has been slower, filled with ups and downs. I think his days of ups are far behind him and he is on a rapid downhill decline.

It has been awhile since I’ve taken care of a resident that destroyed. The white sheets peppered with his dead skin, stained by sores that covered his body. Every movement slow and controlled, yet still caused him pain that he absorbed with strength and grace, more concerned about our discomfort than his own. “Our discomfort” meaning our worry about causing him undue pain, but still doing what was necessary to care for him.

For the first time, since I began volunteering, I felt maybe? I was in over my head. It’s one thing to care for a declining resident that you know, have bonded with. It’s completely different walking into a room which recently belonged to someone else and beginning anew.

I left the room for a moment, wanting to ask someone more seasoned to assist with his care, but I knew if I backed away now, the next time would be harder. I’ve seen worse, it’s just been awhile, and I needed to remember that I could still do what was needed, anytime, without hesitation.

And I did.

So, goodbye my old friend who lived and died in the same room and was once new to me, just as he is. Revolving, changing, and yet the same.