Buckle up

I know it's been a while. For my own emotional sanity, I need to just write about the last sixty or so hours.

My float nurse tells me I need to get to her house. I go and the family tells me she's unresponsive. I'm sad, she's one of my favorites. I go in her room and crawl on the bed next to her. She opens her eyes and giggles. Then she asks to sit up. Her daughter was shocked, but we sat her up.

"Am I peculiar?" she says.

"What on earth do you mean?" I said.

"With this dying, the way I'm doing it, at home, with my family, in my bed. Is that peculiar?"

"Well, yes, your peculiar, but not for this." I get a smile. "Everyone writes their story, this is yours..." I tell her.

She asks to lay back down.


Then I sat at his house discussing the emotional turmoil his daughter is going through. "She has experienced so much death lately..." he says. I listen, validate his concerns, review his own prognosis and offer some support. After listening to her for a long while, I catch the conversation my nurse is having. I hear her mention my name. (Never a good sign). I try to wrap up with these people and move on...

"I hope you can get yourself out of wherever you're supposed to be next" says my wonderful, fabulous, RN.

"Why?" says me. :-)

"Because so and so says our patient can't live there anymore and we need to get over there and do something with her."

I tell her I'll meet her there.

I could tell this family this is our patients disease progression until I'm blue in the face. It does no good. They want her out, TODAY.

My nurse and I make that happen. Then we sit on the arms of the chair on either side of her. I look at her cute, tiny, little frame bundled under all those clothes. It amazes me that such a tiny woman can create so much chaos. Her sad eyes barely visible under her pink hat.

"You" she says. "You my angel with the blue eyes. You always come to help me."

Then she sobs.

I move my arm and allow her to curl her body up against mine. She mostly fits there tucked underneath me. I sit and rub her back and pat her. I tell her it's okay and pray that it will be. She finally falls asleep, exhausted resting against me. Then we get her out of there.

Another patient later, six phone calls, I'm madly talking with Chris before he rushes out the door to a board meeting.

A few legos here, some books there, snacks, pajamas, more bedtime stories, prayers with Natalie, bottle for Micah, stories with him, prayer, lay him down, another good night to Natalie, a little Wii fit and I collapse into bed after hearing about a board meeting.

Yesterday starts with our annual meeting, my "peculiar" patient dying, supervisor visiting people with me, and I end my day with a very sad, young patient. Way too much to type.

I just got home when I got a call from so dear friends whose babies just aren't growing like they should. We pack our little family, grab another wonderful friend and head their way. Lots of tears and more prayers. We get back home, do bedtime, and collapse into the chair, not haven eaten but a tiny lunch and no supper at ten.

This morning, I scheduled a less "emotional" day. I had a ton of paperwork to catch up on this week. I was going to see a couple of people who are coping well and then type, type, type.

It's the 5200 number showing on my phone. I'm in the middle of a visit. It can wait.

It's the 5200 number again. Man.

"Hello, can you wait a minute?"

I leave, it's my nurse supervisor. Patients are dying all over the place. Now, I know, when you work for hospice, this is to be expected. But not this many, this suddenly. I need to go help out my co worker who is at another visit, but had a patient die, family's not doing so good.

When I arrive I meet a dear sweet Alzheimer's patient who just lost their spouse. The family attempted to explain, with no luck. We suggest we sit with her and let her tell him goodbye. It was humbling to be present in that room. She got minutes of clarity as she realized he had died. She told him goodbye, she kissed him, she told him memory after memory, as if he'd been the forgetful one for so many years. Not a dry eye in the place. Then she sobbed, with her little body curled against mine too.

More patients, more paperwork, supper on the run, church, and bedtime again. I look around my house and see clean clothes piled in laundry baskets. Dishes in the sink. Dogs who need some love. A house that could use some serious organization. It really doesn't matter. For today, I'm done.

For today, I can honestly say, I've done what I could, I've shown love.

For forever, I think that's all that matters.

Mark 14:8