It's been a long time since I posted anything. Please be advised, I DID make it home from India:) I was so sure that once I was home, I'd never want to go back. But time passes, and so do (good?) ideas. Anyway, I wouldn't mind going back again some day. Never as a tourist- I wouldn't feel right about it. What I saw in the villages visits me every day. I see it when I get frustrated with the inconveniences in my own life, and it adds perspective. My problems aren't that bad. First world problems- that's all.
I woke up this morning and my heart was heavy. I'd been meaning to start this blog again, and for some reason, I decided today was the day. It is likely that no one will read it because it's been so long, but that's OK. By putting my thoughts into the world, it helps validate them, whether or not anyone else ever encounters them. I'm writing for me, then, I suppose.
Last night, I volunteered at hospice again- part of my Monday routine. It rarely hits me in the moment, but I am quite certain it has some large part to do with my heavy heart this morning. I wasn't planning on staying long last night- I was tired, so I'd even contemplated skipping the whole thing. I went. It was very quiet, so I thought I'd make cookies and leave. As I was collecting my things, one of the nurses asked if I wouldn't mind sitting in one of the patient rooms for awhile. The man in room 204 was dying. This may sound silly because since it's hospice, everyone is dying. But 204 was really dying. His eyes were open and his breathing was heavy. He had a yellow rosary wrapped in his hands. His arms were so thin, and I could see his shoulder blades...but he looked comfortable. This was the first time I have sat with someone so close to death. It's an odd experience, wondering who this person was, and why he is alone during his final hours.
At the foot of his bed, there was a table holding a collection of things. 'Life' things. A phone, a wallet, a favorite hat. I am always struck by the power of the objects left behind. They become so pointless.
I started to talk, and then I started to sing...very softly. I don't sing. I don't know where it came from, but it seemed right. I sang whatever came into my mind, largely relying on 9 years of Catholic grade school and hymms lodged forever in my memory. At one point, and I may have made it up, but I felt my had squeezed in return. Eventually, he closed his eyes, and probably because they had been open for so long, some tears escaped. Or, maybe he saw something beautiful that moved his heart and made him cry. I don't know. I just got to watch.
People ask me why I choose to spend time in hospice. It's hard to explain. Suffice it to say, I used to hear or read about these amazing people who had died. It made me so sad that I'd missed the opportunity to meet them while they were alive. Hospice is kind of the last chance to meet these people. It's one final chance to celebrate who they are, and honor their life by bearing witness to its end. It also helps me to honor significance of life a little bit more. I leave feeling thankful, and reminded to honor the people in my life every day I get to spend with them.
I don't know if the man in room 204 is still alive. I will watch the paper, and return next week to start the process over again. My heart is heavy, but the heaviness is love, and that's ok.
I woke up this morning and my heart was heavy. I'd been meaning to start this blog again, and for some reason, I decided today was the day. It is likely that no one will read it because it's been so long, but that's OK. By putting my thoughts into the world, it helps validate them, whether or not anyone else ever encounters them. I'm writing for me, then, I suppose.
Last night, I volunteered at hospice again- part of my Monday routine. It rarely hits me in the moment, but I am quite certain it has some large part to do with my heavy heart this morning. I wasn't planning on staying long last night- I was tired, so I'd even contemplated skipping the whole thing. I went. It was very quiet, so I thought I'd make cookies and leave. As I was collecting my things, one of the nurses asked if I wouldn't mind sitting in one of the patient rooms for awhile. The man in room 204 was dying. This may sound silly because since it's hospice, everyone is dying. But 204 was really dying. His eyes were open and his breathing was heavy. He had a yellow rosary wrapped in his hands. His arms were so thin, and I could see his shoulder blades...but he looked comfortable. This was the first time I have sat with someone so close to death. It's an odd experience, wondering who this person was, and why he is alone during his final hours.
At the foot of his bed, there was a table holding a collection of things. 'Life' things. A phone, a wallet, a favorite hat. I am always struck by the power of the objects left behind. They become so pointless.
I started to talk, and then I started to sing...very softly. I don't sing. I don't know where it came from, but it seemed right. I sang whatever came into my mind, largely relying on 9 years of Catholic grade school and hymms lodged forever in my memory. At one point, and I may have made it up, but I felt my had squeezed in return. Eventually, he closed his eyes, and probably because they had been open for so long, some tears escaped. Or, maybe he saw something beautiful that moved his heart and made him cry. I don't know. I just got to watch.
People ask me why I choose to spend time in hospice. It's hard to explain. Suffice it to say, I used to hear or read about these amazing people who had died. It made me so sad that I'd missed the opportunity to meet them while they were alive. Hospice is kind of the last chance to meet these people. It's one final chance to celebrate who they are, and honor their life by bearing witness to its end. It also helps me to honor significance of life a little bit more. I leave feeling thankful, and reminded to honor the people in my life every day I get to spend with them.
I don't know if the man in room 204 is still alive. I will watch the paper, and return next week to start the process over again. My heart is heavy, but the heaviness is love, and that's ok.
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