It was a tour of the hospice offices. Simple stuff.
But there was that guy.
Why didn’t I keep my trap shut?
Couldn’t I have read his mind? (Or, realistically, detected a hint of his pain?)
As a professional, possessing a solid educational background and years of experience, how come I didn't have right words at the right time to voice? But, as it's jokingly and seriously said, sometimes: “Sh*t happens.”
It did that night.
Before explaining further, picture that guy. He’s mid-seventies. His clothes were clean, a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the wrists. His pants were unremarkable, with creases no longer sharp. The shoes needed polishing. The crow’s feet framing his eyes merged with other lines and creases. From forehead to chin, his face was a well-worn 3D topographical map. He’s leaner than beef jerky, and, so—to protect confidentiality—I’ll dub him Slim Jim.
On Slim Jim’s left hand, on the gnarled finger next to the pinkie, there’s a ring.
I didn’t notice it until later.
A friend shadowed him, probably younger by a decade. This fellow—let’s call him Nodding Norm—never speaks. But when his friend started talking, he nodded emphatically with every word.
Why was I with these two fellows?
They were on a tour of our hospice offices a few years before the pandemic. Like every other hospice agency hoping to keep finances in the black, we were hosting a two-fer. First, we were hyping new programs, providing “insider” information to donors. Food would be served. Brief speeches given. Tours conducted. And, second, there would be an opportunity to—you guessed it—give money.
Hospice is not an easy sell. Treat your donors well!
And so there I was, after the appetizers and before the speeches, offering a low-key tour. Among the half-dozen or so folks were these two guys.
Nodding Norm remained silent.
Slim Jim, who’d said nothing after my initial babbling about the wonderful work taking place in these offices by my colleagues, abruptly and loudly interrupted me.
“You people from hospice always talk too much.”
Nodding Norm vigorously nodded.
The others in the tour group uncomfortably smiled and soon drifted off to seek more appetizers.
“That’s what happened when the nurses and those others came to our home,” Slim Jim muttered. “They started talking. Asking questions. Telling me and the wife what to do. How to do things. When. Why. What. I felt like a fool.”
More nodding.
“I’m sorry,” I weakly said.
“Talk, talk, talk.” Slim Jim wildly gestured, as if swatting mosquitoes. And then, his hands slowed as he brushed tears from his cheeks.
That’s when I noticed his wedding ring.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. And I was, with just a little sorry-ness for me and my embarrassment at being next to a guy who was irritated, crying, and speaking his deep truth. And even more sorry for Slim Jim, because, without mentioning it, I now knew he was struggling with . . .
Grief.
I’ll be honest with you. My immediate internal reactions to his outburst were two rational questions:
Didn’t he know that he was on a simple tour of our hospice grief support services?
How could I have possibly guessed he was a bundle of anguish and anger?
I wish I could tell you the next words I shared with Slim Jim were perfect and kind and sensitive and empathetic and that they clearly helped him in that moment. If I had been able to offer anything approaching a helpful response, I wish I could also report that Nodding Norm nodded in approval to my compassionate support.
This did not happen.
I listened to Slim Jim ramble a little more. I apologized again. We did shake hands. He did keep crying. And later, I saw him hovering around the appetizers. He and his buddy left before the speakers were finished.
I never learned Slim Jim’s real name. I didn’t know when his wife died. I didn’t know how long our hospice cared for her. Days? Months? I do know that we—the nurses, the social workers, the chaplains, the doctors, the home health aides—talked too much. Me too.
We talk. We read instructions. We share HIPAA guidelines. We explain procedures. We complete forms. We check boxes on computer screens. We answer questions, but then ask more questions.
Someone is dying.
Their loved ones are hurting.
There is so much that needs to be said.
One patient and family—like Slim Jim—will complain that we explain too much.
The next patient and family will complain that we don’t explain enough.
If I got a do-over, I would’ve sat on a couch in the waiting room of the office. I would’ve patted the space beside me and invited Slim Jim to sit. I would’ve told him I was glad that he came, and then—like Nodding Norm—I would have been silent. I think Slim Jim needed to talk. Needed to cry. Needed to be angry. Needed to . . .
Grieve.
We can’t read other people’s minds. Grief, and I say this all the time and never say it enough, is a different path for each person. Now years later, I’m glad Slim Jim thought he could get angry at me. I’m glad we later shook hands. I wish I could’ve done more. Or less.
Remember this, whomever reads these words: grief is a wound. It will heal. But, especially with those we love deeply, it’s a wound that will heal without ever fully healing. No, I don’t expect that to make sense. Death, sudden or after a long, lousy illness, is hard. Impossibly hard. Grief follows, hoisting its randomly swinging sledgehammer of body blows. Then grief gets better. When? Can’t say. But it will get better and it will never go away. Anyone who says there’s “closure” is a liar. Having a funeral is not closure. Getting past the first year is not closure. Putting a time limit on grief is like standing on the beach and ordering the tide not to ebb and flow.
Talking helps. Crying helps.
Not talking helps. Not crying helps.
Sometimes, stumbling around, wanting so much to comfort a friend, the best you can do is be like Nodding Norm. You nod in support. You try to be there for the other. And, though you might wish you could read minds . . . you can’t.
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Photo by Nik Shuliahin 💛💙 on Unsplash
My book, A Companion for the Hospice Journey is available at Amazon.
I loved this.
Hospices are predicated to having to do something. We're busy people. We like our processes, systems and forms. Sometimes we need to remember to just be. I think more people would love us to just be... And not be busy.
Thanks for the reminder.
In my business, Medicare Insurance Agent, I need data to effectively help someone so I ask questions. As one client said “If you aren’t going to make recommendations what do I need you for?” Your technique is more delicate than mine and it should be. But when I get a response I must listen, grasp the key issues, and respond with a solution. Your position is harder than mine as often there is no solution other than time running its course and it is different for each person. Often I just let people tell me about their health care and I may have a solution but it important I let them finish. Glad you were good at this.