a week

This past week is all blurry. It's one of those weeks where you have to stop and really try to remember what you did yesterday, much less Monday. It's been a good week, a sad week, and a hard week. It's a week when I learned how Megan became so accustomed to death because I am as well. I don't think hospice makes you cold. I think it makes you aware. Working with people who know they are dying makes me keenly aware of what is and is not important. It's a constant reminder that nothing in this life is constant. Lives are turned upside down by one lump, one cough, one different heartbeat. I met a 38 year old dying of breast cancer. We are told to get yearly mamagrams after 40. I meet smokers who wish they never started, and smokers who are still enveloped in the cloud. I meet people with dementia and end stage alzheimers. Their families tell their stories. Their eyes tell me they are still alive inside. I always use to think I didn't want to die this way. I didn't want to be sick. And really, I don't want to die at all. But in a way, these people have a gift. As one patient told me this week, "I know this is the last birthday party I'll be a part of for my granddaughter." This one will be big. He told me he is blessed to know, so he can really live. Imagine if we all knew. I'm not sure I could handle it, but it would make each of us really live. Since working here, I'm more intentional with those around me. I pay attention better and say "I love you" more. I'm finding myself craving time with Chris more then ever, and not fighting bedtime so much with Natalie. Is it really that big a deal that I snuggle her a little longer? Will it really mess up her sleep habits for the rest of her life? I don't think so. So that's the sad, the good, and the hard for the week. It's life. Funny that I have to be face to face with people who are dying to remind me to live. Try it this week. Live like you know you are mortal. I dare you.