Forever

A patient died today that I will remember for the rest of my life. I meet so many new people for brief periods of time, that it is not possible to remember them all. But there are a few who manage to make a deep, lasting, impact on my life. She was certainly one of them.

She believed, believed, believed, that she was going to get a miracle. Actually, she would have been mad if I said it like that. She believed she already had a miracle healing and she was just waiting for the rest of us to know too. She had this incredible faith in God and was convinced that He would grant her this healing.

And I wanted to believe.

I did.

I discussed her prognosis. I reviewed advanced directive planning. I begged her to allow our hospice chaplain to visit. I talked with him when she wouldn't. As she claimed Bible versus for healing, I suggested versus like Ecclesiastes, and "a time for everything." I asked her if there was any room in her faith to believe that God will grant her the miracle on the other side of eternity. She informed me, very politely, absolutely not. He was going to heal her. After every visit, I left, said a prayer and hoped against all odds she would indeed get her miracle.

One particular visit, she was in obvious pain, getting weaker, and was just not well. I talked with her caregiver and with the patient about all kinds of topics. I again, allowed her to share her faith with me. I just listened. I finally asked her again why completing a living will would be denying her faith. I reasoned that even Christians die, of something, and if she got her miracle, she would still need the living will eventually. I think to simply make me stop talking about it, she agreed to complete it. Then they discussed the Israelites in the wilderness. My patient's caregiver described various situations where she too was "in the wilderness." She said she was not going to complain in the wilderness because then God would not allow her to see the promise land. Every time, she said, that I just keep moving, God gives me something greater then I could imagine. More beautiful, bigger, brighter, and better then I even asked for. So, they are not going to complain in this wilderness.

I gave them both a hug and told them to call. I checked on her the next week and I could tell she was dying. I knew in my heart she would not live more then a week, unless she got her miracle. That was a week ago today.

As I got to know her better, I realized the reason she so desperately wanted this miracle had very little to do with her. She wanted it for her children, so they would return to the Lord and be saved. She wanted it to prove to them that there is a God. Her physical healing was secondary to their spiritual healing.

Days like today, I have to believe in a promise land. I have to cling to the knowledge that God will give her something greater then she asked or imagined. And because God works all things for the good of those who love him, I have to believe that He knows the best way to draw her children, His children to Himself. It made perfect sense to me that a miracle would convince them. Lucky for all of us that I'm not the Savior. Sometimes we are so grateful for the grace, we forget to praise Him for the mercy. I believe Jesus cried at Lazarus' grave because he knew Lazarus would die again. He knew this whole scene would happen again. And He hates death. Hates it. Which is why He came and He conquered it.

So she will stay with me. Her memory will be one that I think back on and ponder. She is also one that I am super excited to see again. When Jesus finally does return, I want to see her well and healed. I'm praying I'll get to see her real miracle:

I'm hoping I'll meet her children standing next to her.

"we pray for healing, prosperity, we pray for your might hand to ease our suffering,
but all the while, you hear each spoken need,
yet love us way to much to give us lesser things.
What if your blessing come through raindrops
what if your healing comes through tears
what if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know your near
what if trials of this life are your mercies in disguise?
When friends betray us
when darkness seems to win
we know, the pain reminds this heart,
that this is not our home." ~Laura Story

My Wish

When I was pregnant with Natalie, I became a bit of a country music fan. As a result I listened to a lot of Rascal Flatts music before she was born. After I had Natalie we learned she could cry and scream loud. We also discovered that anytime we played the Rascal Flatt's song, My Wish, she would instantly quiet down. I mean immediately. We had a copy of the CD in each car and in the house. She fell asleep to it every night. It was like magic. Recently, Natalie heard me singing Jesus Loves Me to Micah as I was putting him to bed. She asked me what her "good night" song was. And I started singing, My Wish. It's easily been years since I sang it to her, but without missing a beat, she started singing the words with me. Even she looked surprised that she knew it.

My wish for you
Is that this life becomes all that you want it to
Your dreams stay big
Your worries stay small
You never need to carry more then you can hold.
And while your out there gettin where your gettin to
I hope you know somebody loves you
And wants the same things to
Yeah, this is my wish.

Recently I've had a lot of hospice patients who are very much alone. To a certain extent, I believe most of my patients have a sense of loneliness even when they are surrounded by dozens of loved ones. But in a room full of people, they still have to walk this journey alone. No one is going with them. It's something patients talk about, something they discuss in quiet, still moments.

The last few weeks, thanks to a much lower caseload, I've sat at bedsides longer and absorbed more of their stories. I've listened a lot and felt more like a social worker. I've ached as those who don't have a room full of people talk about their loneliness. How must if feel to only be taken care of by someone you are paying to do so?

One patient who has lost the use of his arms asked me to just bend his arm for a minute. He described how good it felt to bend it at the elbow after being still for a few hours. I asked him why he didn't ask his caregiver to bend his arm more often. He didn't want to bother her. How must it feel to ask someone to bend your arms?

I've assessed for all the natural supports, the family, the friends, spiritual support. Family is always a story. She told me her son comes when she calls, but his wife hates her, so she only calls when she has to. I reframe that this situation she was describing would qualify as a "has to." She says no. How must it feel to not call your only son when you are dying because it is not important enough to communicate to him?

I ask another patient about his friends. They used to be everywhere helping him. Now they are scared. They don't understand and they don't want to be responsible for his care. How must it feel to pay a stranger to be present when your best friend runs?

I just listen and listen and listen. I reframe, I encourage, I hug, I bend an elbow, I sit, I am present. More then anything, just simply, present.

Tonight, tucking Natalie in, she says I'll sing to you tonight.
"My wish for you"
I am struck by the brightness of her blue eyes and the slight way she has her head turned

"Is that this life becomes all that you want it to"
I want to not ever be that alone. I want the room full of family and friends. I want to always have a relationship with her and never know the pain of being estranged from my children.

...."and that you know somebody loves you."
Her eyes are a little sleepier and she lays her head on her pillow. I kiss her with tears in my eyes. I tell her I love her and that I'll see her at breakfast.

And as I walk out, I sing a line the to second verse,
"may you find God's grace in every mistake and give more then you take."

May she never know the deafness of an empty room. Ever.

How must it feel to be loved in the final moments of this life?

To love and be loved, that, is my wish.