079 - On not getting there.

On visits and dying and letting go in both.

Welcome back. (or welcome!)

My commitment for “Finding Words in Hard Times” is to send you a newsletter with stories and tools to help you be more comfortable as you help others in hard times.

In the overview of my grief research initiative last week, I mentioned the idea of grief literacy. Grief literacy, I would suggest, is having words, concepts, skills, processes, and resources as a person, family, and community to be helpful to people in time of loss, particularly death.

I see my commitment for this newsletter, and that idea of grief literacy, as overlapping. I’m building the latter as I keep doing the former.

And so I have a couple stories for you this week.

And I have a short survey for subscribers to help me help you.

+++

The ache of a missed visit

A few weeks ago, I wrote about visiting friends that may be dying. A few days after that post, the dying friend that was behind the Jeremy story died. About a week after Jeremy reached out for counsel. And Jeremy didn’t get a chance to visit his old friend.

Because of his question, I posted my response for you, and it was on our hospital blog. All of that is nice. Because he asked, there are some other friends that have been – or will be – visited. But for Jeremy (and for me), there’s still that question: did I fail somehow?

Right?

We tell ourselves, “I should have gone.”

I should have told him what he meant to me.

I should have offered that respect and encouragement.

I should be the kind of person that visits people.

I should.

But let’s be honest. Sometimes the sense of should comes from the expectations of other people. They see we’re a chaplain or that the person helped us decades ago when both of our lives were different, or we grew up in the same neighborhood. And people expect that we should show up.

Sometimes it comes from the personalities of other people. They are outgoing, constantly talking, getting life (or something) from always being everywhere. And they assume we should respond in the ways they do to prove that we care.

Sometimes it comes from the obligations other people feel. (I was going to explain this. But if you know, you know.)

So. As a hospital chaplain, I absolve you from the feeling of should. And, as someone once wrote to me after I had apologized for not staying in contact, “the last thing he’d want is for you to live in that remorse. Take care of the people you are taking care of.”

And, if your person is still living and a visit doesn’t work out, send a note that talks about a shared memory. Or send a text. Or call. Or leave a note. Or give a casserole to a family member who is providing support. Or express support to the people closest to you.

And if my story of how to visit helped you, it only exists because Jeremy asked. So leave a note here about how it helped. (Jeremy will see it (and, of course, his name isn’t actually Jeremy).)

Here’s the story of Jeremy and the tips for visiting, because one of you asked for it.

Should I Stay Or Should I Go

133KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

One story about dying.

The other day, I was in a room with a family. The patient was dying. And we could tell from the breathing. A snore. And then a space. And then a snore. 

That will keep happening, I said to his next-of-kin, and the gaps will get a little longer. Eventually, the gap will get so long that there won’t be a snore at the end of it. And he will be gone.

When that happens, let the nurse know. A couple nurses will come in and listen to his heart. And they will hear nothing. And they will look at you, quietly, and say something like, he’s gone. Or I’m sorry. 

When it was my mom, I started a timer on my phone when the gaps got real long. Because I knew that I would lose track of time, I wanted to know for sure before I went to find a nurse. I wanted to know when it was so long that there wouldn’t be another breath.

He’s got pain meds, and some meds that will help with anxiety. But those aren’t why he’s not talking and looking around. His body is stopping, slowly. 

An hour or so later, I was back to the floor. I found the family in a lounge, looking out the window. It happened the way you said, she said. Thank you. 

So here’s the thing. Deaths are different, just as people are different. And I hesitate to offer descriptions because they become recipes, they become expectations, they become opportunities to say, “That’s not how it happened for me.” 

I’m appreciate and acknowledge (and see for myself) the differences in dying. I am fully aware that what we think may be minutes could be days. And what we’re sure will be another day, may be 47 minutes. But I also am increasingly comfortable, in some rooms, with describing what the process will likely be. 

And now, she said, I’m sad. I told her that I agreed.

I’ve been in many other rooms. And there are other stories. But for some of us, this one may help. 

+++

Another story about bearing withness.

A year ago, I told you the story of our daughter Kathryn. If you missed that, read “Bearing Withness.”

+++

I’m okay.

So, I realized that some of you worry about me being around grief and death regularly.

I realized it because some of you ask. And I’m okay. Most weeks, I’m at the hospital between 25 and 30 hours. We see Ben regularly. I run often, Nancy and I walk and talk and fall asleep watching TV, and we’re going to Germany to see our son next month. And being able to write to you is helpful.

And thanks for your care and encouragement.

And here’s that a short survey again.

See you next week.

Jon