First, let me say that IOU an entry about NYE. As I'm short on time today but desperately need to journal, that one's going to have to wait.
So, here's my entry on last weekend... just in time for this weekend to roll out the red carpet for me.
Last weekend was by far the saddest hospice weekend I've encountered over the past year of me doing this kind of work. Because of the intensity of the emotions involved and the fact that this may be a topic I've covered a few times already, I'm going to try and keep this as brief as possible.
Last week Friday, I did something I don't often do during the week. I checked my work blackberry to look at the "Weekend Report" sent out by the office. While it hadn't been sent yet, I did get an email regarding one of the patients in the hospital that I'd be working with over the weekend. There was much discussion amongst our staff on what the best practice would be for this patient, ethically and morally speaking. Because of the dynamics involved, I started preparing myself for what could possibly turn into a pretty intense Saturday.
Saturday morning arrived and I touched base with the triage nurse in the office as soon as my shift began. We laid out a plan for my day and off I went to the hospital. My first patient, the one I had been preparing myself for, was only 27 years old. After weeks of being in a nonresponsive state following the injuries she sustained from a car accident, her parents decided to discontinue all "aggressive treatments" that were keeping her body alive.
Thankfully the patient, unlike many people her/our age, had discussed her wishes regarding life support and end of life care with her parents prior to her accident. While her parents had done everything necessary to save her life, once it was determined by the patient's doctors that she would not survive her injuries, they made the impossible decision to follow her wishes and let her go. That's where our hospice team came in.
I arrived on the unit with the intentions of supporting this family as they're daughter died following the removal of her last "aggressive treatment". It was expected that as soon as this form of treatment was removed that she would pass very quickly. However, as I walked up to the patients hospital room and noticed the door was shut and the blinds were closed, I knew she was already gone. My nurse, who had gotten there just 20 minutes before me, affirmed this to be true and stated that the patient had died just as she herself had walked onto the floor.
It's amazing how impeccable my timing often is. I can't even tell you how many times I've walked into a room to find that the patient I was arriving to see had died only moments ago.
Anyways, I did my thing and provided the support that I could to the family.
However, unlike most visits I make, this one was drastically different. Of course it had a lot to do with the patients age.... it isn't often that we have young people on our service (although, we have had three now in just the past 6 months). But that wasn't the only thing... there was more to it than that. I couldn't put my finger on it during the three hours I sat outside that patients room, waiting for other family to arrive so that I could be there to provide them with any support needed by me. (Inevitably, they didn't really want any. Could I blame them though? No. They were probably looking at me and thinking to themselves, "She's [insert patient's name here]'s age. How could she understand this?" Or they were angry because here I was, a walking and talking person their daughter's age, while she lay motionless in a bed. I get it. It was completely understandable.) However, after I arrived home that night, I realized why this case was really different from the rest.
For the first time in a long time, my heart was numb during this visit. While I sat outside her room for those three hours, I opened the blinds a few times to look in at her lifeless body. My heart felt empty as I looked at her laying so peacefully in that bed. I expected a rush of emotion but it just wasn't there. At the time I couldn't explain that.
Later though, I could.
Yes, this girl was my age. But she too had a young daughter at home... one she adored and loved on just as much as I love Liana. One she called "peanut", just as I call Liana. There were so many similarities to our story and while our lives seemed to be very different otherwise, that one connection was all I needed. For self preservation, my heart was numb during that visit. Afterwards however, was a very different story.
Saturday night was rough. Actually, it was hell. You could've wiped the floor with me that night and I wouldn't have known. I felt defeated, horrified, sad, lonely. I grieved that night.... something which I don't normally have to do. Yes, all deaths are sad, but you learn to maintain your "social work boundaries" very well while doing this job because if you don't, you won't make it in this line of work. I wouldn't be able to be a hospice social worker if I connected with each of my patients... it'd be too emotionally difficult and draining. But this patient I connected with on a superficial level. Like I said, it wasn't on many levels, just on one, but that one level was enough.
All I could think about was how this little girl just lost the most important person in her life. How on top of losing her mom, she'd now be losing the grandparents she'd been raised with too. I thought about how her grandparents lost both their daughter and their grandchild all in such a short amount of time. About how empty that house will suddenly feel. About how today, that little girl woke up in a new home with a new family after moving in with her daddy who lives three hours away from the place she has always known as "home". So many losses for one family to face. So many.
So, Saturday night was rough. After sitting on the couch for hours and allowing myself to think about this patient and her family non-stop, I finally decided I had to get up. I had to do something to distract myself. Hence, I took down all the Christmas decorations and completely reorganized the basement (and boy, was that a task). Mike, who'd been out for hockey, came home at 1130 to find me still up. We went to bed but I couldn't sleep. My mind couldn't think about anything else. The last time I looked at the clock it read 2:30 am.
Sunday came along. And just when I thought things could only get easier, they didn't.
Sunday morning we did a vent removal. The husband of this patient broke my heart... those elderly men who have been married for 60 years usually break my heart the most. Once the patient was off the ventilator, she held on for five hours before peacefully and comfortably passing into the arms of Jesus. While her husband broke my heart as he sat next to her bedside talking about how lonely he was going to be without her while also telling her how much he loved her, he knew from the bottom of his soul that he had made the right decision for her. He knew that life on a vent is not a life at all under these circumstances and faithfully he let her go. He encouraged her that he'd be okay and told her to go home to finally be with her mother and sisters in heaven. She did. It was amazing.
And during this visit there was one moment that I'll likely remember forever. The floor nurse taking care of this patient shared a story about how her mother had died while on the operating table during surgery. While her mother ended up surviving, she came back to tell her family about what death was like. She explained that she saw this beautiful white light and found herself in a flower garden with her father, who had long ago died. They walked together, hand in hand, and after some time her father turned to her and explained that she "had to go back" because it "wasn't her time". The nurse stated that her mother didn't want to come back because heaven was so beautiful. While the nurse said that her mother would have typically done anything to be with her children, heaven was so wonderful it made her forget about all the people she was leaving behind.
Hearing this story gave me hope and a renewed faith during a time in which I wasn't sure why God would take a young mother away from her young child. I'll touch back on the subject of faith in a little bit. But this visit was good for my hospice heart. It renewed my love for the work.
After my visit with this family ended, we received another referral. Once again, I felt like I got sucker-punched in the gut as I received my report from the triage nurse on the patient I was heading over to see. This patient, who was only 40 years old, was dying from AIDS & lymphoma. My nurse and I walked onto the floor and received a second report from the floor nurse who had been caring for the patient throughout the week. She explained that during the week the patient's mother had visited and gave her some unauthorized medications (we're not just talking Tylenol here, either) during her visit. When hospital staff became suspicious and the patient's brother requested a drug screen be run, they ran one and found her positive for the meds. The patient's brother, who had been her primary caregiver for the past year and had devoted his whole life to caring for his sister, was beside himself. (Actually, that's a serious understatement.) Since being given the meds, the patient had taken a significant turn for the worse and while it's still unknown whether the decline was because of the meds or because of something else, her brother feels that their mother has "killed" the patient and plans to pursue legal measures.
Obviously, this visit was very dramatic and intense. I was actually quite thankful to be able to put my social work skills to use on this one because I had felt pretty helpless all weekend when it came to providing support to the families I was working with. I sat with the patient and her brother and tried to work through his feelings of guilt and grief. He shared with me the patients story about how she got AIDS and why he's such a fierce protector of his sister. It all made sense. I looked at the woman laying in that bed and my heart ached for her.
No person deserves to be mistreated the way that she had been all her life. Her brother said during our visit, "Her entire life has been about pain."
This statement sent me reeling and left me feeling angry inside. I'm a faithful person, through and through. I may not attend Mass regularly, but I believe in God and in Jesus to the depths of my soul. I feel their love every day and am not naive to all the ways they've blessed my life. But why then, was this woman's life so painful? Why did she have to suffer so much? Why does any one person have to live 40 years of pain and hurt?
That's what I struggle with.
And while I became angry during this visit and even afterwards, that faithfulness didn't leave me. I don't know why He allowed so much pain in her life, but I hope there's a reason. A really good one.
Sunday night I was drained all over again. I walked into the house at 7:30 (my shift ends at 8) and hadn't even started my charting. I got through it as quickly as I could and went straight to bed around 10. Because I hadn't slept well the night before, I crashed that night.
Monday, I got right back up and went back to work. It was a much better day and by the end of it, I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that without my faith, I couldn't do this work. How could I walk into a dying person's room each and every day if I didn't believe they were only beginning a journey that was more wonderful than anything else they've ever known? That with the end of one life comes another?
I couldn't. I believe that there's so much more beyond this life that we can't even possibly imagine. And that's what gets me through each and every one of my hospice days, no matter how bad they might be.
Last weekend was my saddest weekend yet but somehow, I came out of it feeling okay about life. Someday, when the loss is my own I realize it will be much, much harder to feel that way. But for now, I'm thankful.
I'm thankful for the health of my family, the blessings in my life, and for my patients and their families because every day I go off to work I come home with a new or improved sense of purpose in life. While I may help them, they help me too.
What other job can provide me with that?
So, here's my entry on last weekend... just in time for this weekend to roll out the red carpet for me.
Last weekend was by far the saddest hospice weekend I've encountered over the past year of me doing this kind of work. Because of the intensity of the emotions involved and the fact that this may be a topic I've covered a few times already, I'm going to try and keep this as brief as possible.
Last week Friday, I did something I don't often do during the week. I checked my work blackberry to look at the "Weekend Report" sent out by the office. While it hadn't been sent yet, I did get an email regarding one of the patients in the hospital that I'd be working with over the weekend. There was much discussion amongst our staff on what the best practice would be for this patient, ethically and morally speaking. Because of the dynamics involved, I started preparing myself for what could possibly turn into a pretty intense Saturday.
Saturday morning arrived and I touched base with the triage nurse in the office as soon as my shift began. We laid out a plan for my day and off I went to the hospital. My first patient, the one I had been preparing myself for, was only 27 years old. After weeks of being in a nonresponsive state following the injuries she sustained from a car accident, her parents decided to discontinue all "aggressive treatments" that were keeping her body alive.
Thankfully the patient, unlike many people her/our age, had discussed her wishes regarding life support and end of life care with her parents prior to her accident. While her parents had done everything necessary to save her life, once it was determined by the patient's doctors that she would not survive her injuries, they made the impossible decision to follow her wishes and let her go. That's where our hospice team came in.
I arrived on the unit with the intentions of supporting this family as they're daughter died following the removal of her last "aggressive treatment". It was expected that as soon as this form of treatment was removed that she would pass very quickly. However, as I walked up to the patients hospital room and noticed the door was shut and the blinds were closed, I knew she was already gone. My nurse, who had gotten there just 20 minutes before me, affirmed this to be true and stated that the patient had died just as she herself had walked onto the floor.
It's amazing how impeccable my timing often is. I can't even tell you how many times I've walked into a room to find that the patient I was arriving to see had died only moments ago.
Anyways, I did my thing and provided the support that I could to the family.
However, unlike most visits I make, this one was drastically different. Of course it had a lot to do with the patients age.... it isn't often that we have young people on our service (although, we have had three now in just the past 6 months). But that wasn't the only thing... there was more to it than that. I couldn't put my finger on it during the three hours I sat outside that patients room, waiting for other family to arrive so that I could be there to provide them with any support needed by me. (Inevitably, they didn't really want any. Could I blame them though? No. They were probably looking at me and thinking to themselves, "She's [insert patient's name here]'s age. How could she understand this?" Or they were angry because here I was, a walking and talking person their daughter's age, while she lay motionless in a bed. I get it. It was completely understandable.) However, after I arrived home that night, I realized why this case was really different from the rest.
For the first time in a long time, my heart was numb during this visit. While I sat outside her room for those three hours, I opened the blinds a few times to look in at her lifeless body. My heart felt empty as I looked at her laying so peacefully in that bed. I expected a rush of emotion but it just wasn't there. At the time I couldn't explain that.
Later though, I could.
Yes, this girl was my age. But she too had a young daughter at home... one she adored and loved on just as much as I love Liana. One she called "peanut", just as I call Liana. There were so many similarities to our story and while our lives seemed to be very different otherwise, that one connection was all I needed. For self preservation, my heart was numb during that visit. Afterwards however, was a very different story.
Saturday night was rough. Actually, it was hell. You could've wiped the floor with me that night and I wouldn't have known. I felt defeated, horrified, sad, lonely. I grieved that night.... something which I don't normally have to do. Yes, all deaths are sad, but you learn to maintain your "social work boundaries" very well while doing this job because if you don't, you won't make it in this line of work. I wouldn't be able to be a hospice social worker if I connected with each of my patients... it'd be too emotionally difficult and draining. But this patient I connected with on a superficial level. Like I said, it wasn't on many levels, just on one, but that one level was enough.
All I could think about was how this little girl just lost the most important person in her life. How on top of losing her mom, she'd now be losing the grandparents she'd been raised with too. I thought about how her grandparents lost both their daughter and their grandchild all in such a short amount of time. About how empty that house will suddenly feel. About how today, that little girl woke up in a new home with a new family after moving in with her daddy who lives three hours away from the place she has always known as "home". So many losses for one family to face. So many.
So, Saturday night was rough. After sitting on the couch for hours and allowing myself to think about this patient and her family non-stop, I finally decided I had to get up. I had to do something to distract myself. Hence, I took down all the Christmas decorations and completely reorganized the basement (and boy, was that a task). Mike, who'd been out for hockey, came home at 1130 to find me still up. We went to bed but I couldn't sleep. My mind couldn't think about anything else. The last time I looked at the clock it read 2:30 am.
Sunday came along. And just when I thought things could only get easier, they didn't.
Sunday morning we did a vent removal. The husband of this patient broke my heart... those elderly men who have been married for 60 years usually break my heart the most. Once the patient was off the ventilator, she held on for five hours before peacefully and comfortably passing into the arms of Jesus. While her husband broke my heart as he sat next to her bedside talking about how lonely he was going to be without her while also telling her how much he loved her, he knew from the bottom of his soul that he had made the right decision for her. He knew that life on a vent is not a life at all under these circumstances and faithfully he let her go. He encouraged her that he'd be okay and told her to go home to finally be with her mother and sisters in heaven. She did. It was amazing.
And during this visit there was one moment that I'll likely remember forever. The floor nurse taking care of this patient shared a story about how her mother had died while on the operating table during surgery. While her mother ended up surviving, she came back to tell her family about what death was like. She explained that she saw this beautiful white light and found herself in a flower garden with her father, who had long ago died. They walked together, hand in hand, and after some time her father turned to her and explained that she "had to go back" because it "wasn't her time". The nurse stated that her mother didn't want to come back because heaven was so beautiful. While the nurse said that her mother would have typically done anything to be with her children, heaven was so wonderful it made her forget about all the people she was leaving behind.
Hearing this story gave me hope and a renewed faith during a time in which I wasn't sure why God would take a young mother away from her young child. I'll touch back on the subject of faith in a little bit. But this visit was good for my hospice heart. It renewed my love for the work.
After my visit with this family ended, we received another referral. Once again, I felt like I got sucker-punched in the gut as I received my report from the triage nurse on the patient I was heading over to see. This patient, who was only 40 years old, was dying from AIDS & lymphoma. My nurse and I walked onto the floor and received a second report from the floor nurse who had been caring for the patient throughout the week. She explained that during the week the patient's mother had visited and gave her some unauthorized medications (we're not just talking Tylenol here, either) during her visit. When hospital staff became suspicious and the patient's brother requested a drug screen be run, they ran one and found her positive for the meds. The patient's brother, who had been her primary caregiver for the past year and had devoted his whole life to caring for his sister, was beside himself. (Actually, that's a serious understatement.) Since being given the meds, the patient had taken a significant turn for the worse and while it's still unknown whether the decline was because of the meds or because of something else, her brother feels that their mother has "killed" the patient and plans to pursue legal measures.
Obviously, this visit was very dramatic and intense. I was actually quite thankful to be able to put my social work skills to use on this one because I had felt pretty helpless all weekend when it came to providing support to the families I was working with. I sat with the patient and her brother and tried to work through his feelings of guilt and grief. He shared with me the patients story about how she got AIDS and why he's such a fierce protector of his sister. It all made sense. I looked at the woman laying in that bed and my heart ached for her.
No person deserves to be mistreated the way that she had been all her life. Her brother said during our visit, "Her entire life has been about pain."
This statement sent me reeling and left me feeling angry inside. I'm a faithful person, through and through. I may not attend Mass regularly, but I believe in God and in Jesus to the depths of my soul. I feel their love every day and am not naive to all the ways they've blessed my life. But why then, was this woman's life so painful? Why did she have to suffer so much? Why does any one person have to live 40 years of pain and hurt?
That's what I struggle with.
And while I became angry during this visit and even afterwards, that faithfulness didn't leave me. I don't know why He allowed so much pain in her life, but I hope there's a reason. A really good one.
Sunday night I was drained all over again. I walked into the house at 7:30 (my shift ends at 8) and hadn't even started my charting. I got through it as quickly as I could and went straight to bed around 10. Because I hadn't slept well the night before, I crashed that night.
Monday, I got right back up and went back to work. It was a much better day and by the end of it, I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that without my faith, I couldn't do this work. How could I walk into a dying person's room each and every day if I didn't believe they were only beginning a journey that was more wonderful than anything else they've ever known? That with the end of one life comes another?
I couldn't. I believe that there's so much more beyond this life that we can't even possibly imagine. And that's what gets me through each and every one of my hospice days, no matter how bad they might be.
Last weekend was my saddest weekend yet but somehow, I came out of it feeling okay about life. Someday, when the loss is my own I realize it will be much, much harder to feel that way. But for now, I'm thankful.
I'm thankful for the health of my family, the blessings in my life, and for my patients and their families because every day I go off to work I come home with a new or improved sense of purpose in life. While I may help them, they help me too.
What other job can provide me with that?
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