Mood

Yesterday I sat with a dying woman and her granddaughter.

It was late afternoon and I was in no mood to go to the hospital. It was a cold winter day and my mood was bad. I was in a tunnel of gloom. I knew we could not place this patient onto our inpatient hospice program. I knew she didn’t qualify. Believe it or not, sometimes simply dying does not make you hospice appropriate.

(Few understand this concept. It’s actually a law. But I’ll leave the ins and outs of that for another time.)

But regardless of my bad mood, I packed my bag, grabbed some water and got into the car to drive over to talk to the Hospitalist, the nursing staff and the family. And to see the patient and make my own assessment.

I work remotely now and need to drive over to the hospital. It takes about 20 minutes on a good weather day. And the drive is beautiful. Stunning really. Like a painting. You see the absolutely majestic mountains, the Jordanelle Reservoir and the big sky. Then you reach the hospital, it looks like a warm, inviting ski lodge with a big warm fireplace burning in the lobby. Friendly faces greet you as you walk in, welcoming you. There is always a large vessel of water with fruit floating in it for you to drink. It’s a lovely place to see.

However, my cloud of moody gloom stuck with me despite the wonders I just witnessed

As I walked the stairs to the medical floor, I stopped. Took a few deep breaths. I needed to look at this mood for a moment. Needed to pause it. Why was it even there I asked myself.

(How often do you check in with yourself? How often do you paint the world because you see it through your mood? Probably you don’t check into it often enough. I know I don’t.)

I suppose my bad mood was based on a few things bothering me. A family member who is not doing well and one who is sad, a country divided over politics, poor sleep the night before, not being able to be outside as much as I would like. And a general feeling of the winter blues. I pondered at this as I stood in the quiet stairway. While doing this, a few staff members walked by and said a kind hello. Funny that we are used to seeing staff halted in this way. Sometimes we escape into the stairwell to cry or to sit for a quiet moment because the tumult is too much. Healthcare workers hide a lot of feelings. And when we want to express them, we often hide ourselves as well.

Anyway, after what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact a mere few minutes, I made my way to the floor. I shrugged off the mood like a coat and began.

After speaking with clinical staff, I entered the patient’s room. It was quiet in there. Hushed. The elderly grandmother lay on the hospital bed, perfectly still. Breathing calmly. Totally unresponsive. But peaceful. This was good. We usually walk into chaos, but I was fortunate enough to enter calm.

Next to her sat her granddaughter. Red eyed from crying. I introduced myself to her and to the patient as well. Just because someone cannot respond doesn’t mean they cannot hear. The granddaughter asked a few questions, I did as well. I like to know something about my patient. They have lived long lives and people love them and I learn so many wonderful and interesting things. I am so honored they allow me in at such an intimate time and share with me such wonderful memories.

The granddaughter had to leave so I was alone with the patient. I wanted to watch to make sure she was truly comfortable. Hospice nurses assess this in ways that most clinicians miss. It becomes intuitive to us. It’s hard for me to explain. But I only noticed peace. She was somewhere else, between worlds. All her earthly worries gone. I sat in awe of this even though I have seen it a hundred times or more. I closed my eyes and tried to think about what this is like, to be leaving the world. To have everything just shed away and be free. I immediately could feel the weight lift from my shoulders. I have felt this way many times. But it’s transient and sometimes elusive. But when I’m in the presence of the dying, it is profound. Such a gift they give to me. Even if elusive.

I then went back to the nurses station to discuss with the staff what to do if there were any changes. I spoke to the Hospitalist, the social worker. The patient had all she needed to be cared for properly. I felt assured she would have a good death.

On my way out, I once again stopped in the stairwell. My mood had shifted as it always does when I am with patients. My whole perspective changes. It’s not even a subtle shift. It’s pretty dramatic. Like a shock to the system saying, my God Janice, you have nothing, absolutely nothing to worry about. Life is good right now. Be grateful.

Does that mean I’m always this way? That this enlightens my very being? No, absolutely not. I still get irritated at minutiae, aggravated at dirty dishes in the sink, mad at myself for something I did or did not finish. But it also provides me this; beautiful moments of respite from my worries, the ability to give others a pass on their behavior, the chance to open my heart more. And it reminds me how short life is, and that if we have even one person who will miss us when we are only a picture in a frame, then indeed life is very good.

So I left the hospital with a lighter step. I said a silent prayer. I enjoyed the views even more on my ride home. And I reminded myself how much wisdom the dying can teach us if we only pause to embrace it.

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When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

– Mary Oliver