I wrote this and read it at a memorial service for the hospice where I was working three years ago.
Recipe for a Hospice Nurse
My journey down the path of being a hospice nurse started early. The first time I remember doing any care taking, I was about five years old. My great-grandmother lived in a small cottage behind my grandmother’s house in Geraldine, Alabama. I remember climbing up the hand built steps by her bed and feeding her some chicken dumplings. The bed was very tall as most of the beds were back then. I think it was to discourage critters from curling up in a warm spot next to your feet at night.
When I was a little older, running around with my cousin, Eddie, Aunt Pliney was tucked comfortably in a small cot by the front door of the converted school bus where Aunt Ider cared for her without benefit of Depends. I am sure they did have some pain-killers perhaps in the form of whiskey. I know paragoric was certainly available then, because I remember my mother rubbing it on my gums when I was having a hard time pulling a tooth or if a tooth was sprouting. I find it interesting that paragoric had liquid morphine as one of its main ingredients.
Years later, I was about to turn 30. Being a hippie at the time, I had previously embraced the philosophy of not trusting anyone over thirty. Needless to say, I was not having an easy time of that pending landmark birthday. A friend of mine was taking care of a woman who had cancer. Diane had exhausted all of the medical treatments and had just gotten back from England where she had been given a new list of possible cures. Massage had been recommended and my friend asked me to make a home visit to fulfill that prescription. I had been doing massage for several years and had not had the opportunity to work on very many people who were that sick.
Diane was very yellow, with bright blue eyes, her belly was swollen and hard, she was bald and her arms and legs were gangly and thin. When I think back on laying eyes on her that night, all I remember is how beautiful she was. Karen’s life oozed away as her husband and I held her. I never gave her the massage as she died peacefully within minutes of my arrival. Meeting Karen has always been a gift to me. I think of her every time I have a birthday. She was 29 years old when she died.
Clementine was a home care patient of mine in rural Virginia. She had wounds that were very painful. She lived in a shack that was heated by a wood stove, with no indoor plumbing. There were pictures of Jesus on almost every wall. Clementine would not allow me to give her pain medication, not even a pain patch. She said that Jesus took care of her pain and that He would not put more on her than she could bear. My visits with her were hard for me because I felt I was doing nothing to ease her suffering.
One Saturday morning, I was in her neighborhood and I decided to drop in. She usually would not make eye contact with me but that day was different. She asked me if I would bathe her. The men in the family went outside to smoke and the other women helped me wash her. Amazingly she showed no signs of pain as we turned her from side to side. Once she was dressed in her yellow, frilly nightgown and covered with a clean sheet, the men were summoned from the porch. They helped pull her up in bed and she gently and sweetly took her last breath. I walked away from Clementine’s that day feeling grateful to her for finally letting me help. I also trusted that Clementine’s pain had been taken away by her faith in Jesus.
After becoming a hospice nurse, I went to evaluate Henry whose family took care of all the paperwork. When they introduced me to him and explained who I was, he scowled at me, shook his head while maintaining strong piercing eye contact with me. He raised his hand and wagged his finger communicating he wanted nothing to do with me. I told him I understood and that I would only do what he wanted.
I came back the next day. Henry was actively dying. Most of his family members were present including several kids running around playing. When I let them know of his rapid decline, the party like atmosphere changed immediately to one of panic. One of Henry’s sons was on the way and he needed to say goodbye to his father. I suggested they call him so he can at least say what he needed to over the phone. His sister held the phone up to their father’s ear and Henry’s son was able to say goodbye. Henry peacefully breathed his last breath about 5 minutes later. On the day of his death, I felt that he waited for me to get there so I could help take care of his family allowing him to die peacefully.
Sometimes I think people wait until I get there to die and sometimes I think they wait until I leave. Some of the time people die when family or friends arrive or leave. Some slip away in the middle of the night while their loved ones are sleeping and some wait until the last family member drives in the driveway when they make the transition. Somehow if you think about the person, who they were and their relationships, their parting usually makes some kind of sense.
When hospice workers get together for outside of work social times, we talk a lot about our experiences during work hours. A common question people ask all of us is how can we do such depressing work being around death so much. I believe that we share feelings of being grateful to our patients and their loved ones for welcoming us into this very special precious, hard time. We honor this process that is so rich in love and faith. We offer not only our understanding of how the body lives and dies, we offer our hearts to share this universal condition called life. How could that ever be depressing?
Recipe for a Hospice Nurse
My journey down the path of being a hospice nurse started early. The first time I remember doing any care taking, I was about five years old. My great-grandmother lived in a small cottage behind my grandmother’s house in Geraldine, Alabama. I remember climbing up the hand built steps by her bed and feeding her some chicken dumplings. The bed was very tall as most of the beds were back then. I think it was to discourage critters from curling up in a warm spot next to your feet at night.
When I was a little older, running around with my cousin, Eddie, Aunt Pliney was tucked comfortably in a small cot by the front door of the converted school bus where Aunt Ider cared for her without benefit of Depends. I am sure they did have some pain-killers perhaps in the form of whiskey. I know paragoric was certainly available then, because I remember my mother rubbing it on my gums when I was having a hard time pulling a tooth or if a tooth was sprouting. I find it interesting that paragoric had liquid morphine as one of its main ingredients.
Years later, I was about to turn 30. Being a hippie at the time, I had previously embraced the philosophy of not trusting anyone over thirty. Needless to say, I was not having an easy time of that pending landmark birthday. A friend of mine was taking care of a woman who had cancer. Diane had exhausted all of the medical treatments and had just gotten back from England where she had been given a new list of possible cures. Massage had been recommended and my friend asked me to make a home visit to fulfill that prescription. I had been doing massage for several years and had not had the opportunity to work on very many people who were that sick.
Diane was very yellow, with bright blue eyes, her belly was swollen and hard, she was bald and her arms and legs were gangly and thin. When I think back on laying eyes on her that night, all I remember is how beautiful she was. Karen’s life oozed away as her husband and I held her. I never gave her the massage as she died peacefully within minutes of my arrival. Meeting Karen has always been a gift to me. I think of her every time I have a birthday. She was 29 years old when she died.
Clementine was a home care patient of mine in rural Virginia. She had wounds that were very painful. She lived in a shack that was heated by a wood stove, with no indoor plumbing. There were pictures of Jesus on almost every wall. Clementine would not allow me to give her pain medication, not even a pain patch. She said that Jesus took care of her pain and that He would not put more on her than she could bear. My visits with her were hard for me because I felt I was doing nothing to ease her suffering.
One Saturday morning, I was in her neighborhood and I decided to drop in. She usually would not make eye contact with me but that day was different. She asked me if I would bathe her. The men in the family went outside to smoke and the other women helped me wash her. Amazingly she showed no signs of pain as we turned her from side to side. Once she was dressed in her yellow, frilly nightgown and covered with a clean sheet, the men were summoned from the porch. They helped pull her up in bed and she gently and sweetly took her last breath. I walked away from Clementine’s that day feeling grateful to her for finally letting me help. I also trusted that Clementine’s pain had been taken away by her faith in Jesus.
After becoming a hospice nurse, I went to evaluate Henry whose family took care of all the paperwork. When they introduced me to him and explained who I was, he scowled at me, shook his head while maintaining strong piercing eye contact with me. He raised his hand and wagged his finger communicating he wanted nothing to do with me. I told him I understood and that I would only do what he wanted.
I came back the next day. Henry was actively dying. Most of his family members were present including several kids running around playing. When I let them know of his rapid decline, the party like atmosphere changed immediately to one of panic. One of Henry’s sons was on the way and he needed to say goodbye to his father. I suggested they call him so he can at least say what he needed to over the phone. His sister held the phone up to their father’s ear and Henry’s son was able to say goodbye. Henry peacefully breathed his last breath about 5 minutes later. On the day of his death, I felt that he waited for me to get there so I could help take care of his family allowing him to die peacefully.
Sometimes I think people wait until I get there to die and sometimes I think they wait until I leave. Some of the time people die when family or friends arrive or leave. Some slip away in the middle of the night while their loved ones are sleeping and some wait until the last family member drives in the driveway when they make the transition. Somehow if you think about the person, who they were and their relationships, their parting usually makes some kind of sense.
When hospice workers get together for outside of work social times, we talk a lot about our experiences during work hours. A common question people ask all of us is how can we do such depressing work being around death so much. I believe that we share feelings of being grateful to our patients and their loved ones for welcoming us into this very special precious, hard time. We honor this process that is so rich in love and faith. We offer not only our understanding of how the body lives and dies, we offer our hearts to share this universal condition called life. How could that ever be depressing?