moments of grace
As part of our clinical rotations, we have to write reflective journal entries each week. I'm doing hospice this term, at my own request. This is the entry for this week:
Hospice is hard.
I still think that I can encompass this experience (and have it, in turn, magnify me), but it helps--more than I have easy words for--to have moments of grace.
We visited a patient who is dying of cancer, and who is taking only minimal amounts of non-narcotic medication for her pain. The patient's religious beliefs prohibit her from using medication that could impair her cognition. So she’s in some pain.
But she's present, and meeting her I was struck by the sense of profound, calm joy that radiated out of her. She was bald, cachectic, obviously terminal-and yet, she was beautiful. Her eyes were clear and peaceful. She knew who she was and what was happening to her, and she was utterly grace-full.
I feel privileged to have gotten to see that. When my time comes, I hope that I face death with that kind of presence.
And seeing that was a gift. I makes it... well, not easier, precisely, but less of a weight, to do this work. It's moments like that one that I can use to give me not simply the strength, but the ánimo (the closest term in English is encouragement/impetus/vital energy) to do all the other work. Not just the overcoming feeling trepidation at taking the lead in a visit, but also charting, and all the mundane things, and dealing with the messy bits of bodies failing.
Moments of grace, like when you meet a patient's eyes and see serenity looking out over death like a sailor standing on the shore gazing across the water. That's something that is going to stay with me.
I'm certain that there will be ugly moments that will stay with me, too. But right now, I’m so glad of the beautiful ones.
Hospice is hard.
I still think that I can encompass this experience (and have it, in turn, magnify me), but it helps--more than I have easy words for--to have moments of grace.
We visited a patient who is dying of cancer, and who is taking only minimal amounts of non-narcotic medication for her pain. The patient's religious beliefs prohibit her from using medication that could impair her cognition. So she’s in some pain.
But she's present, and meeting her I was struck by the sense of profound, calm joy that radiated out of her. She was bald, cachectic, obviously terminal-and yet, she was beautiful. Her eyes were clear and peaceful. She knew who she was and what was happening to her, and she was utterly grace-full.
I feel privileged to have gotten to see that. When my time comes, I hope that I face death with that kind of presence.
And seeing that was a gift. I makes it... well, not easier, precisely, but less of a weight, to do this work. It's moments like that one that I can use to give me not simply the strength, but the ánimo (the closest term in English is encouragement/impetus/vital energy) to do all the other work. Not just the overcoming feeling trepidation at taking the lead in a visit, but also charting, and all the mundane things, and dealing with the messy bits of bodies failing.
Moments of grace, like when you meet a patient's eyes and see serenity looking out over death like a sailor standing on the shore gazing across the water. That's something that is going to stay with me.
I'm certain that there will be ugly moments that will stay with me, too. But right now, I’m so glad of the beautiful ones.