Giving a Little Bit Back

Tonight, a group of singers from Reagle Music Theater are dressing up in our Victorian garb and going caroling. But this isn’t just any caroling outing. This is a very special gift of caroling, because we are caroling at a hospice facility. (http://www.parmenter.org/hospice.cfm)

Those of you who know me personally know that both my parents were served by hospice care at the end of their lives. In my dad’s case, he had hospice nurses caring for him at home for several months; in my mom’s case, she lived at an inpatient hospice facility for about a week. In both cases, the workers we met were unbelievably caring, compassionate, and helpful to not only the patient, but to the family. They offered us support and understanding. They made all the difference in the world in incredibly difficult circumstances. And with my dad passing away in September and my mom passing away in April, we had some time to process our grief before the holiday season arrived. I can only imagine how much more difficult it must be for families that have a loved one in hospice during the Christmas season.

How does someone “celebrate” what they know will be their last Christmas? How does a family celebrate the holiday knowing the grief that is soon to follow? Giving presents isn’t really appropriate. Most hospice patients are ill enough that they can’t enjoy a special meal or edible treat. Many of them are in too much pain or too semiconscious to even appreciate conversations with family. But nearly all of them can hear and enjoy music. And most of them know Christmas carols from their earliest childhood and associate them with happy memories of family celebrations. So hearing Christmas carols is one gift that we can give both patients and their families that is a way for them to celebrate the holiday one last time, something that can be a happy memory for them of their final Christmas with their loved one.

Both of my kids were up in the middle of the night last night and I’m sure by the time this evening rolls around I’ll be pretty tired. But knowing that I might be bringing a small bit of joy into the lives of some people who are struggling to find joy in this usually joyous season is enough to motivate me to get going and do it. And when I get home, I’ll give my little angels (and my big angel, too) an extra-tight squeeze and an extra-long kiss, in thankfulness and joy that they are healthy, happy, and home, and I’ll say an extra prayer for all of those whose loved ones are none of those things.

Isn't It Ironic

Two and a half years ago, my mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. After two major surgeries, she was able to stay at home while she underwent chemotherapy. Ironically, I was newly pregnant with my first child - her first grandchild – and as I visited her each day, we commiserated over nausea and lack of appetite, and took our afternoon naps together. The cancer responded to the chemo very quickly, and by the time my son was born, Mom came to the hospital, not as a patient, but as a proud new grandma meeting her new grandson for the first time.

She was healthy for over a year, and during that time celebrated both my sister’s wedding and my son’s first birthday. But not long after that, she began experiencing all too-familiar symptoms. The cancer had returned.

Once again, she began chemotherapy. And once again, I was newly pregnant. But instead of laughing about our shared nausea in Mom’s living room, we were grimly ignoring it in her hospital room. She was much sicker this time, and it was quickly apparent that the cancer was not responding to the chemotherapy this time around. So it was no surprise when her doctor asked for the family to join Mom at her appointment a few weeks ago. And it was no surprise when the conversation began with the awful words, “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more we can do.”

Even though we all knew in our hearts that we had reached that point, hearing the words said out loud was both devastating and yet, somehow, a relief. The giant elephant in the room had finally been acknowledged. We all agreed that inpatient hospice care would be best for Mom, and the plans were set in motion to transfer her to a beautiful residential hospice facility near her hometown.

When the decision had been made that Mom would move to hospice, my husband gently suggested that we sign up for his company’s drop-in daycare program, so that when the time came that we needed to spend long days with Mom, we would have that resource available. We agreed we’d do a “test run” this week and signed him up for today. In yet another ironic twist, Mom was transferred into the hospice facility yesterday evening, so today, the day my son went to daycare for the first time, was my first visit to her there.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how ironically parallel the situations were: handing over both my mother and my child into the care of others for the first time in my life; entrusting them to strangers who would care for them in the short term when I could not; feeling guilt that I wasn’t taking care of them myself 100% of the time yet knowing that was an unfair demand; feeling both grief and relief at releasing them into hands other than my own. I shed a few tears as I kissed my son goodbye on his way to daycare, and I shed a few more as I kissed Mom goodbye in her new home. I didn’t want either of them to need to be there, but I’m glad there is a safe place for them to be when they need it.