Tag Archives: compassion

Unexpected Holiness

As a practicing Death Doula, I have the privilege and honor to walk people home. Sometimes the human I am assisting has a goal they want to accomplish before they die or they want specific music playing throughout their stay with hospice. The sky is the limit if I can get it done.


My most recent client, Alden* (not his real name), is one I’ve known for well over a decade. I have been his caregiver for several of those years and his POA for the last few months.

He never married or had kids except for his beloved cats whom he referred to as his kids. Puttyhead and Topper were his world. Puttyhead was 15 and died the day Alden came home from an extended stay at an after hospital rehab facility. Topper is also 15 and lovingly small.

Only a month later, Alden was back in the hospital in critical condition. When he was stable enough to communicate, he expressed a longing to see Topper.
After he returned to a rehab facility, I brought the two together. It was extremely emotional for everyone involved.

Three months later, Alden was again admitted to ICU. This time was far worse than before which prompted end of life discussions. He again, miraculously pulled himself back to stable-ish.

He was given a choice between four options with hospice being three of them in different places. The fourth was terminal reduction of oxygen which was immediately rejected.

Hospice option one had him remaining in ICU but he couldn’t see Topper, but his loved ones could all come visit.

Hospice option number two had him still in the hospital but in a room where he could see his “child”.

The third hospice option was for him to go home to his cat, but the condition was that he couldn’t be on the heavy duty breathing support. He had to be able to be on a cannula. But each attempt at weaning him hadn’t lasted longer than five to six minutes.

I asked him to think about hospice. There was zero pressure to choose. Breaking the hospital/rehab cycle is too personal for me to make the call. I’m there to support them and offer as many feasible options as practical.

I returned the following morning to find him holding steady on a cannula! Three hours at that time with no stat drops. Alden looked pleased with himself and he decided no hospice.
I finished the visit and headed home.

A short while later, I got a call from Nurse Beth explaining that things weren’t working well. Bring the people who love him, which I did.
Within the hour, a small group gathered by Alden’s side. We talked with him, hugged him, shared stories, and then he rallied (It’s rather common for someone to have a surge of energy and seem like their health is improving when death approaches).

The following morning, Alden was awake, alert, and writing down his wishes. He wanted to go home to Topper. We got hospice on board. But Alden wasn’t strong enough for transport.

With a lot of logistics and a stand-off with the administration about bringing in Topper, we figured it out.

Topper arrived and spent two and a half hours sharing time together. These two “old men” said everything they needed to say to each other. Topper crawled up onto Alden’s chest and fell asleep while his dad stroked his fur. The room was filled with so much love and beauty it was heartbreakingly holy.
Alden was tired. He asked me to bring Topper home.

I returned to the hospital and saw symptoms of end of life occurring. (Changes in coloration of fingers, eyes glassy and unable to blink for example). We pulled in a sleeper for me but I stayed with him until he died early morning.
The silence. The absence. The intensity of ancestral grief honoring the life that was and the life that is. The punctuation mark ripped from the book of the living, transferred to the book of the dead was complete.

Paperwork finished, I looked out the window to see the pre-sunrise colors warming the purple sky. I thought, “This is the first sunset my friend can’t see. Another day for me but not for him.” (For clarity, the contrast between the sunrise I was seeing and his sunset shortly before).

I watched the purple change to pink then orange as the sun granted light on the dark day. I felt the love we shared as friends grant me strength and purpose to walk my people home.

The Witnesses (updated)

To honor Good Friday, (2015) I was asked to write a poem. I do not proclaim a faith, just a belief in love and the goodness of the human beings that walk this plane. The three part poem below is written from three perspectives witnessing the crucifixion. When it is read, it is from three different voices they come. I hope it speaks to your spirit if you’re so inclined.

Verse One: The Observer

I’m not a Christian, but Lord, if I was,

I’d not stand by and watch them offer up applause

For that man they called a criminal for preaching about love

For the one some call Messiah, while others cry Peaceful dove.

I stand here in the crowd as they cheer this brother’s pain

My heart is filled with sorrow, as his beaten body strains

The laughter that I hear from the festive vicious hearts

Breaks something inside of me, tears my faith apart

I want to scream above the crowd, “HEAR!”

In a voice shrill and loud, “ME!”

With my head no longer bowed, “LORD!”

Releasing my own funeral shroud, “I AM NEAR!”

But I am weak, just human. I am nothing compared to them.

But maybe, my kindred spirits, that’s what moves me to condemn

For I love my God with all my heart, and in God’s house I walk

I serve in supplication, I don’t just talk the talk.

I am not a Christian, but Lord, if I ever loved,

I’d heed the wisdom of the dying man, and thank my God above.

Verse Two: The Participant

How dare that man pass his judgement down on me!

Who does he think he is, telling ME how to believe?!

I’ve learned and taught the toe-RAH

I’ve worshipped at the sacred altar

I’ve cantered every prayer

I can recite them without flaw or falter.

Then this mortal man comes along and claims to be

Far more holy than even me?

The Son of God? Oh, reeeeaaaaaaallly!?

I’ve fixed that preachy “Love Thy Neighbor” fellow

I paid my thirty silver to hear him scream in falsetto.

Sometimes the laws I enforce prevent me from doing what’s right

I pass the coins to Roman hands, let them bloody their own hands tonight

This should make my people think twice before leaving our faith

To follow a crazy instigator, that rejects my loving God’s face.

Verse Three: The Intimate

I am hidden in the darkness, afraid to show my face

“Oh Lord, why’d they tell us that Yeshua fell from grace?

You showed me my friend Judas with thirty silver in his fist

Forsake my dear beloved with cold betrayal’s kiss

You let my holy brother be taken

from the garden where we prayed.

You allowed him to be arrested

when you could have let him stay.”

I am hidden in the darkness, afraid they’ll point at me and say

That I was clearly one of his. That they’ll kill me the same way.

“Oh Lord, why have they called for my redeemer to be killed?

When ne’er a drop of anguish from his gentle lips have spilled?

I do not feel you near, Oh God, I’ve lost your loving light

When they took my sweet friend, Yeshua, away in darkest night.

If I weren’t hidden in the darkness, barely safe from Roman harm

I’d scream out my torment, beating my chest to sound alarm.

“Hosanna! Hosanna! I sing to your precious name

Hosanna! Hosanna! My finger points my brother’s shame.

My faith is ever yours, even when I don’t understand.

I mean, you took us through the desert, 40 years we wandered sand

And yet, my Father, I hide here, within this darkened room

I wonder, holy patriarch if his death will also be my doom.”

I am hidden in the darkness, despair my wretched dominion

Oh God! My Loving God! Remove my deserter’s vision.”

Hats of many colors

I wear a lot of hats in my work life. Three of them are braided together for maximum service. I am a non-medical caregiver/companion. I am a commissioned lay chaplain. I am a Death Doula.

During the course of my relationship with my clients, I learn their quirks, their wants, needs, and their humor. I get to witness their family dynamics working and sometimes dysfunctional. I see them at their most vulnerable. I bathe them, change soiled clothing, help them maintain mobility, and because of and despite the messiness of aging, I fall in love with them and their lives.

As a lay chaplain, I feel comfortable and confident speaking to them about difficult topics such as death, dying, and how they want/need things to go as the reason for hiring me becomes more intrusive on their physical and therefore spiritual journey. I help them articulate what’s most important to and in their lives. To me, it feels holy.

As a Death Doula, I work in tandem with hospice. I help the families and my clients to understand what is happening, what is likely to happen, and insure the end of life is as smooth and comfortable as possible. I sing to my people. I read to my people. I hold vigil and space in silence. This feels sacred to me.

When my person dies, my love does not. Although I make myself available, families often go the way of the winds after my purpose with their loved ones has been fulfilled. The anchor has been lost and they drift away into their new normal. It’s not my favorite part of what I do, but I understand that vulnerability is not comfortable and I’ve witnessed them being so.

This past week I’ve lost two people I loved, cherished, and cared for. I’m currently serving a third. It’s hard. It hurts. It’s living and loving grief in a complex respect and surrender. I don’t have all the answers but I’m good at what I do.

As an accused angel in a meat suit, I will continue to serve, adapt, grow, learn, and embrace my own inevitable death because that breathes life into my soul. This is my happiness and my calling. It is my honor to walk my people home.

Healing Hugs

I hugged shame

I loved disgrace

I encouraged peace

To the weeping face

I heard confession

I felt mercy

I held his hand

Told him he’s worthy

Removed the prison

Of spoken word

Showed him value

By actions served

He sobbed for relief

From a god he doubted

Regret his badge

His sight; sin clouded

Visible pain

ached his soul

But his words dictated

Desperate control

Will he surrender?

Forgive his heart?

Remember his humanity,

That is tearing him apart?

I can’t fix him

Or make things better,

Just let him feel loved

Releasing the debtor

The Heir

You were a human being

With a life as precious as my own

But, I’m alive and you are not

To me a path was shown

I’ve inherited your voices

I’m heir to your bright beacon

I will not turn away

My resolve will never weaken

I spend my inheritance freely

With loud pride from your source

I magnify it ideally

Your oppression no longer enforced

The lynching tree will bear no fruit

The crucifixion of branches

Will decay, not take root

It’s time to play with matches

Altar Building

Holy light ripples from one prayer to the next

Candle to candle

Continuous Hope lit liberally

From one heart to another

A sustainable support

To ease burdens

To celebrate joys

To guide one another

With wisdom and reverence

A catalyst towards Universal Love

Progress towards Justice

A beacon towards personal truth

A stable trust in sacred communion

Of torchbearing faith outwardly

Reflection of our own hearts

Rising like the morning mist in a meadow

I had a dream…

I went to church on Sunday. I gave our interim minister a holy water hanging made of hand painted porcelain from Portugal. I gave an origional watercolor from a street artist depicting the city with the bridge, made by the same designer of the Golden Gate bridge to one of my clients. I gave a tile drawing kit to his wife. I gave the requested magnets and a bonus keychain with my tile design on it to another of my friends. I returned the book on Paris to my Auntie.

The speaking pastor was from the UUA and he was really good. I enjoyed his sermon immensely.

I got to hug and be hugged. I got to love and feel loved. Emotionally and spiritually I was doing great. There was a fundraising lunch after the service to benefit Fruit for Kids that makes sure children in our area schools get healthy choices. I enjoyed a soup (one of the few things I can eat right now) and had an Always Beautiful moment with the maker of that soup.

After everything was done, I wasn’t feeling too well so I went home to take a nap before I was supposed to head over to my Beastie Diane’s house. Then things went amiss.

I was in my shower enjoying the hot water when I started to feel ill. I turned my head and got sick into the water. I turned back and realized I was wet and that I wasn’t actually in the shower. I’d been sick all over my pillowcase and sweater. Dang it.

I texted Diane to see what time I could come over but she was having a bad day and asked to change it. Well crap. I called another friend who offered their washer and dryer. Excellent. I went over, watched a show called Reservation Dogs (It’s an FX show and is really funny and a good watch.) Laundry done, I headed home with my little dog in tow.

Later that night, Diane messaged me that she couldn’t find her bunny anywhere. She was more distraught and crying. I dropped what I was doing and headed to her house. I couldn’t find that bunny anywhere in the house. I searched high and low but to no avail. I went outside and checked under the first deck, no dice. I climbed as far as I could under the second deck and there he was just minding his bunny business.

After several attempts to corral him, offerings of apples, carrots, and celery, he still wouldn’t budge. A few pokes by a stick got him running the wrong way. As I crawled out from under the deck, I spotted him running up the hill towards the vast back yard. I hollered and pointed him out. Diane went after him trying to catch him, but he freaked out and took off running.

I climbed up the stairs on the other side of the yard and cooed to him, speaking gently in a quiet manner. He came over to where I was and waited for me to pick him up. Man, I snuggled the crap out of Bunbun. He seemed relieved.

Bunny safely inside his room (She has no idea how he got out of the house, I suspect he learned the doggie door), I hugged her goodbye and went home at about 11 and by 11:30 I was asleep.

I was standing on the edge of a southwestern canyon. I could see the blue skies above me and the red and gold earth below my feet. The sun was shining, inviting me to spread my wings and fly. The wind enticed me to the edge. I looked down and knew with all my heart I was going to experience a euphoria I’d never learned. I jumped…

I landed on my shoulder and hit my poor head on the floor of my closet. My bed showed no evidence of a struggle. It looked like I’d pulled back the blankets neat as you please. I must have yelled out because Matthew, my nephew/son was at my bedroom door pretty quickly asking if I was alright. After I caught my breath, I affirmed my being okay and embarrassed returned to bed.

Just before 9AM I woke up. I knew I was going to be late for the breakfast date I’d made, so I quickly texted and got dressed. I took care of my morning routine and headed out the door. By the time I got to where I was going, I was having a hard time lifting my arm very far and if I tried lifting anything, it was popping up to a 5. I ignored it, I mean, I was trying to fly for Pete’s sake.

Plans made to get with my doctor and decide further care, it occurred to me that I wasn’t feeling well…again. I kept my next appointment but confessed I wasn’t up to par. Another adjustment and I agreed to head to the ER.

I went home to lay down for a bit before going. I was tired and didn’t feel like moving. My bestie Jen came over and hounded me until I got out of bed. We headed to downtown Knoxville.

As I sat waiting for an x-ray, a man came and sat next to me while his wife was getting her x-ray done. She’d broken her spine, was clausterphobic and they had to put a brace on her. As he told me what she was going through, I asked him how he was doing. He seemed surprised. He was struggling with emotions. I asked if I could do anything to help ease his worries. He asked me to pray for his wife. I prayed for both of them. He reached over and squeezed my hand. He thanked me as he left with his wife. Pictures of my own were taken.

Off to the CT to get imaging done on my face. As I waited for my turn, a young man, late teens maybe, was sitting to my left. He was pleasant and chatty. He told me he had nothing to eat but ritz crackers for three days and he couldn’t keep those down for long. He was hooked up to saline and some other bag that I couldn’t read.

“I’m here with my mom and dad,” He told me. “I’m really scared it’s something bad.”

“What if it is?” I asked him.

“I just don’t want more needles and I don’t want to make my mom and dad worry.” he answered. “If it’s bad, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“My friend Miss Marge lived to be 101 years old. She said the secret to a long life was to keep moving, even if it’s a sidestep. If it’s bad, you can only move through it no matter the outcome. I can’t promise you you’ll be okay, but I can promise you that the fact your parents are out there waiting to hear word of you shows great devotion. You are clearly loved.”

He smiled at me. A look of accepted relief washed over his face. “Yeah, I am. Thanks. Are you okay?”

“You should see the other guy!” I quipped. We laughed at my foolishness. The attendant called his name.

“Thanks for talking with me.” He stated as he pulled the IV tree with him.

“Any time.”

The two conversations I had with these people felt so deep and real. Vulnerable in a bad situation but comforting in our company together. It was more satisfying than going to church (some Sundays) in my spirit. I felt like a conduit, not the one actually speaking.

HOURS LATER:

A doctor finally came in to see me, made a plan, then left quickly. In his defense, there were so many people there. A phone conversation I overheard was by a woman who had gone to the hospital in Oak Ridge (I absolutely refuse to go there because they tend to not take good care of people). That hospital told her she had a herniated disc but she didn’t think it was right. It turns out she fractured her spine in two places and was going in for surgery. Yeah, that’s why I was where I was an not in my hometown hospital.

A plastic surgeon came in to set my nose and remove my stitches from my lip. The lip was a cake walk. Snip and done. The nose, on the other hand, good Dude in a handbasket.

They had to inject numbing into my nose, the floor of my nasal cavity, and up the sides of my schnozz. “Be still,” He told me. “You’re going to feel a little pinch.” Pinch my ass!! He didn’t but JEEHOSEPHATS! I wish to Dude he’d had said: This is going to hurt quite a bit, but you need to stay as still as possible.

I nearly came up swinging when the first needle went into my face. By the time the third one was being placed in the floor of my left nostril, I was weeping and shaking as if I were in a Michigan winter with no coat on. How I kept my head still, I don’t know, but the rest of me looked like a beached fish flailing about while the doctor’s reassured me I was doing fine.

They put a metal tool up my nose and pushed until I heard a pop in my face. Although mostly numb, it was by far not my favorite moment since I first injured my face. They put a splint up my nose to hold the septum straight and put a brace on the outside of my nose. It could have been worse. I moved through it and abided the best I could considering.

My nose is now set and quite lovingly braced. (insert eyeroll here). They tidied up and left with instructions of a soft food diet, don’t lay on my back unless propped up, and to see the plastic surgeon in 7 days. I wish I felt more warmth towards them doing their job, but I could barely see through my tears.

The first doctor came back in and said although I had no breaks in the bones of my shoulder and hadn’t dislocated it, there was obviously some damage. He thinks I did some soft tissue damage and possibly messed up the rotator cuff again. Great.

I look like I was in a doozy of a fight, but despite all the shenanigans and the ungodly amount of time spent in the ER, I have referrals to the doctors I need to see, financial aid papers to fill out, and now the healing begins in earnest.

How can you thank someone who would sit with you while you endured the ups and downs of medical issues? How can I show my gratitude for being so loved? What can I give that will demonstrate the level of trust and devotion I have for someone who would do that for me?

Jen, if you’re reading this, know that you have my heart, my devotion, my love, and my loyalty because you have given it so willingly, openly, and honestly to me. I know you have my back no matter what. It’s surprising to be able to call you up and know that no matter what, you’re there. I hope I don’t have to ever watch you suffer as you have me, but if you ask (and probably even if you don’t), you have my truest devotion. Thank you for being you so well, so honestly, and so truly.

For the rest of you, may peace be with you wherever you are or go. You are loved!

Day Fourty-Three, Lori and Dave

I’m a multiple trauma warrior. I’ve seen some shit. Because of that, I’m primarily hyper-independent which is, in fact, a trauma response. When you can’t trust the people around you, you become self-sufficient at a level most people don’t realize. It makes asking for and accepting help extremely difficult.

After yesterday’s horrors, my bestie Jen contacted the people I was supposed to go see today and let them know what happened. They didn’t hesitate. They said they’d be up to see me instead. When I found this out, I told them thanks, but you don’t have to do that. Nonsense!

They arrived early this afternoon, Lori and Dave. Bless their beautiful hearts.

I’ve been thinking about love a lot lately. What it is, what it takes, what it gives, where do you find it, is it even real? It is.

They showed up, they brought me hugs, friendship, warmth, kindness, compassion, but most of all they showed me what love is. It’s about showing up. It’s about being available. It’s about sharing moments, stories, and time together. It’s about accepting one another just as they are. It’s a trust found in relationship. I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am for them making the trip up to make sure I was okay.

We walked together to the Coach museum, with a side-jaunt to get some ice cream (Poor Dave had motion sickness from being on the boat for 20 minutes), where I took assloads of pictures of some of the most ornate coaches I’ve ever seen. They practically carved statues onto these rolling monuments. I’m not even kidding. When I took the pictures, I took a picture of the name of each one. I took a picture of the description in English so I could remember what I was looking at. Then I took pictures of the many intricate details that were added to make sure that particular carriage/coach was the biggest and the best. I was surprised at the size of the wheels on those puppies. Many of them were taller than my 5’3″ tall height. Heck, some of the carvings on them were as big as me!

When I downloaded the pictures to my computer, none of them came up in order. I have no idea what is what. On top of that, many of the pictures I took before we got to the museum didn’t make it. They don’t exist according to my phone. BLAH!

One of the pictures I took was in Portuguese. It said, “Se isso custa a sua paz, e muito caro.” which means, “If it costs you your peace, it’s too expensive.” Another said, “School kills artists.” Graffiti for the sake of tagging doesn’t seem helpful or add to the beauty of the world, imho. But, when you can make the world a bit better by reminding them of a message that needs to be remembered, that’s what I appreciate. Kindness spray painted on a wall decorates instead of desecrates.

I had planned to make this a picture heavy post. My intention was to show you what I’ve seen, but how can I show you kindness that was given to me? How can I exude the love that I feel and was given? What could I possibly display that would show you how broken open my heart is for the people I love so dearly? I can’t.

What I can do is offer you my blessing:

May peace be with you wherever you are or go. You, yes you, are loved!

Interaction, a bonus post

He didn’t have enough, but I did.

He searched for resources embarrassed.

He promised to return, hurrying away.

I gave because I could.

It wasn’t much, less than 2 euros.

The cashier looked puzzled

but she accepted my gift to him.

In fact, she chased him down

while I waited, patiently.

I made sure he got a tiny yellow duck.

I made sure the cashier got a tiny yellow duck.

My spirit felt good and right.

He didn’t have enough, but I did.

Revision

Rolling down the road before

Been there, done that, know the score

Crossed that bridge, then burned it down

Trapped myself in my hometown

Ghosts of me walk laughing by

Anger driven, cocaine high

I barely know the face of then

But I wear them as my diadem

Broken heart lay broken wide

Spilling love from what’s inside

Trains of childhood sing forlorn

Don’t chase those tracks. Don’t heed those horns.