Grief 1.0, The Gift

Tonight was the first class of an eight week series of bereavement meetings.  The company I work for makes them available to families of our hospice patients, and, anyone in the Salt Lake Valley who is grieving the loss of a loved one.

This is the fourth series of eight week get-togethers.  I’m reluctant to call them classes, because that insinuates that something is being taught.  There is a format, handouts for each week, and assignments such as journaling or activities for self-care.  It’s just that to call this a class somehow diminishes the alchemy of what takes place each week.  The classes have been small, less than 10 participants.  The configuration is varied; a daughter and her father, a mother and daughter, a wife and caregiver, a widow or widower.  There is diversification of ages, cultures, and colors.

With this much variety, it would be reasonable to think that there would be a variety of coping mechanisms, levels of grief, or emotions.  This is not so.  While grieving is certainly personal, and reflects the individuality of the bereaved, I am still amazed at how common the ground is when someone we love steps through the door of death.

I began my work as a hospice chaplain in 2001.  For five years, I refined my craft, worked with extraordinary hospice team members and never lost sight of what a privilege it was to be invited into someone’s home at this most personal time.  In spite of all my training and experience, I was not prepared to leave the protected space as a professional and step to the other side of the bed as a family member.

It was Labor Day weekend, 2005, when I got the phone call from my brother.  He stated that my father had fallen, and there was no one to take care of my mother.  Several years before, she had suffered a stroke.  Even though my mother was on hospice, my father was her primary caregiver, feeding her all her meals and caring for her by himself while still working part-time at age 80.  His fall had been severe enough, to qualify him for hospice care, as well, and to hospice teams were now caring for them.

Since I was single, my brother reasoned, it made perfect sense for me to put my furniture in storage, take a leave of absence from my job, and move into the trailer house my father owned.  I would then be available, to manage the two hospice teams.  Until now, care had been somewhat disorganized, unpredictable and unsupervised by my family.

When I moved in, I became both hospice team’s worst nightmare; schedules were posted on the fridge, previsit phone calls were required, and all members of the team stepped up their game.  These were wonderful people and caring professionals, but without a ringleader, that many people couldn’t function properly.

Both my mother and father began to thrive because of the increasing care.  The nurse, Emily, who took care of my dad rode and raised horses just like my dad had in earlier years.  They had much to talk about, and she even brought one of her ornate saddles and a couple of her trophies to show my dad.

Nick, my dad’s aid, was a student who wrote a motorcycle much like my dad’s old bike.  My dad was proud and modest, so to have a male aide disarmed his resistance.  He even began to look forward to those days when Nick came to shower him.

The chaplain, Roger, was not much younger than my dad, and they shared war stories.  Roger was thoughtful enough to find out what kind of cookies my dad preferred, and Roger always showed up with a dozen fresh from the bakery.

As much is my dad responded to his care takers, it was nothing compared to my mom and her relationship with her aide, Heather.  The nurse came and went, the chaplain was declined, but Heather was the heartbeat of my mother’s care.  Three times a week, Heather would come and provide the simple ministrations that comforted my mother; bathing her, washing her hair, applying soothing lotion to her skin, were the basics.  But, Heather always did a little extra, she changed my mother’s bed, curled her hair just the way mom liked it, and polished mom’s fingernails.

Members of a hospice team become more like family than just visitors in the home.  When Heather married her longtime boyfriend Mike, I had the privilege of performing the wedding.  It was a garden wedding on a sunny summer afternoon, in her parents’ beautifully decorated backyard.

The way my mother felt about Heather was summed up in a single event.  My sister, Kathy and I, were both reminiscing with her in the living room one afternoon.  It wasn’t often, that the two of us had the time to visit her together.  In the middle of the visit, there was a knock at the door, When my mother saw that it was Heather, she stood up and dismissed the two of us as though we were unwanted Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Excuse me”, she said, “Heather is here, I have to go now.”  My sister and I laugh so hard, we nearly cried.

It’s been almost 10 years, since my mother passed away.  Under the exceptional hospice care, my dad got better, had both knees replaced and still drives himself to the senior citizen’s center for lunch three times a week.

Because of my experience on “the other side of the bed”, I’m a better hospice chaplain.  I value the members of the hospice team, especially the hard-working aides.  Those people, and their care, impact the families I serve.  They set the bar so high by the way they treated my parents; I have a lot to live up to.

It’s my obligation, and opportunity to continue the hospice care with those left behind.  I’m confident, that the professionals on the hospice team are every bit as wonderful as those who cared for my parents.  I’m committed, that the care doesn’t and when the patient dies, but, continues at that same level of excellence while those left behind are helped to heal.