My Hospice Journal - The Blessings of One Tomato

On Tuesday's I go visit my sweet hospice patient. He's only the fourth hospice patient I've had so far, but the first one who does not have any kind of debilitating illness that causes him not to be able to communicate, coherently anyway. He is very lucid and talks endlessly about his life's journey, his wife (who he lost quite a few years ago) and always before I leave, brings up his garden. He isn't able to tend to it much these days, but his family helps him out. Every week before I leave he tells me to go check to see if there's a ripened tomato for me to take home. I gladly oblige, since I am a big tomato lover and all my tomatoes have been involuntarily given to all the squirrels in our neighborhood!!!

Yesterday's visit was, again, sweet and wonderful. I could tell he was a bit more tired than usual but it didn't stop him from telling me more about his life, and even throwing in a joke or two. After lying on the couch for awhile I watched as he was safely transferred to his favorite chair. The process of moving him just a couple of feet took about five minutes and visibly wore him out completely. After he was all situated in his chair, he looked up at me as if to subtly say, "I'm tired and this is starting to kinda suck."

This afternoon I got a message that my sweet hospice patient passed away. Reconnected with his wife, disconnected from any and all medical equipment, and happily tending to the biggest garden he's ever seen... I couldn't help but smile through my tears. 

I cherish the blessings I've been given to share in these patients' lives, if only for a very short time. I have loved each and every one of my hospice patients and have asked them to say a prayer for all of us as we continue our life's journey here on earth.

As for tomorrow, I plan to cherish this last tomato, slice by slice, thinking of my friend and looking forward to the next patient to bless my life.

R.I.P. sweet man. I will miss you.

†

My Hospice Journal - "Pleasantly Confused"

"Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely, and the unwanted according to the graces we have received; and let us not be ashamed or slow to do the humble work." - Mother Teresa

For selfish reasons, I am never instantly happy to hear when one of my hospice patients passes away. My mind starts thinking about our visits, how I am going to miss seeing them, talking to them, feeding them, etc. 

This last hospice patient was a lovely elderly lady who was feisty, kind, and "pleasantly" confused. That term, pleasantly confused, was the description I received from the hospice organization I volunteer for when they sent me the details on this precious lady before I ever went to visit with her.  From now on, I am referring to all my Alzheimer's patients as "pleasantly confused". Love it! I only had the chance to visit with her three or four times but I know I will never forget her.

Having Alzheimer's, she often talked to herself and held conversations with people not present. Sometimes I was glad they weren't present because it was obvious in a few of her conversations, she was upset with them. Most have already passed before her, but that didn't stop her from instructing me to go into the other room and tell someone to "shake a leg" since she was ready to go and needed to get home before dark. 

Most of the time she was in pain, but with Alzheimer's, she forgot she was in pain until she felt the pain again. This doesn't make much sense to us who aren't so confused (until now) but it eases the caregiver's mind, knowing a patient in pain often times forgets the pain when their mind/thoughts are back in the garden, taking a walk, or visiting unseen loved ones.

Her favorite thing to do when I was there was to hold her "baby." This was a battery-operated stuffed animal that when activated, will repeat everything you say. To her, this wonderful little buddy offered just the right conversation by repeating everything she had just said. She could remember the last sentence or two she spoke, so when repeated back to her, it was a nice two-way conversation that held her attention and made her giggle. She was only confused during the times the stuffed animal was silent, not realizing it was only because she had not said anything for it to repeat. What a precious memory I have of her holding it close to her face waiting for it to talk to her and after about three minutes of silence she would bring it up to her nose and say "Boo!" to wake it up. When "boo" was repeated back to her, her soft laughter was something I only wish I could have captured on film. I will have to lock that away in my memory and smile every time I think of it.

I cherish the short amount of time I get to spend with these patients. It's a small reminder to me that time waits for no-one. We all have one life to live and the ability to care for those nearing the end of theirs. It's an honor and a privilege and one I will continue to do until I am "pleasantly confused."

R.I.P. my sweet hospice patient. †