Most people don’t know much about hospice. I get it.
Most aren’t interested in learning about hospice. I understand.
Most figure hospice is for someone else, but not them. Makes sense to me.
If a trusted health professional suggested hospice care, most will prefer to talk about other options. Is there a Plan B or C to hospice? Is there a second or tenth opinion with choices other than hospice? Wouldn’t you consider asking that?
Even if you knew that hospices cared for about 50% of the people who died last year in the United States, hospice stats aren’t too relevant because you’re not going to ______.
Not going to what? Die?
My parents jokingly—and also seriously—talked about leaving “feet first” from their home. Over the decades, they’d called the plumber to fix the toilet, mowed the lawns, repainted the house when needed, upgraded to double-paned windows, and mostly figured that at a mysterious future point they’d go to sleep in their bed and not wake up. Mom was smart, a person of deep faith and knowledgeable about the world. Dad, as bright as he was stubborn, had a successful career of selling life insurance, of preparing his clients to plan for their uncertain futures.
They did not die in their lovely home of nearly 50 years.
Once I visited a seventy-something church member after his doctor’s appointment. He’d been diagnosed with prostate cancer. With his wife sipping coffee nearby, he told me the doctor gave him three options: 1) surgery with a good chance for recovery and a few more good years; 2) chemotherapy’s decent chance of slowing the cancer for a while; and 3) doing nothing. “We’re good,” he announced, winking at his wife. “I like the doc’s recommendations.” He chose option #3. Didn’t like someone cutting into him. Didn’t like the thought of losing his hair. The oncologist had said it was his choice, and right then he felt pretty darn good. Why not risk doing nothing?
He died a few months later.
Who needs hospice? Who wants to talk about that most awkward and depressing of subjects?
And I tell ya, I still think I won’t die . . . even though all the signs are there. Now past seventy, my hair is thin and gray. My knees are creaky. I have several guaranteed places that ache when I “leap” (not) from bed before the crack of dawn. My lower back feels like it’s jerry-rigged with balsa wood and bent nails. My hearing, seeing, and smelling are fading.
Call me a typical example of entropy: a “gradual decline into disorder.”
But will I die?
No! Well, sure. But . . .
How could I think that? As a minister, I’ve presided over hundreds of funerals. My former hospice job includes contacting families after a loved one’s death, with thousands of conversations about grief. I’ve watched both parents die. As a friend, a guy alert to the news, a history buff, and student of the Bible, I know death happens. A dear friend dies. Soldiers and villagers are killed in endless wars. Hitler murdered millions. Methuselah, the mythic oldest human of Genesis, would eventually take a last breath. (I bet the folks at Heavenly Medicare cheered when that old geezer met his maker!)
Every day, hour, minute, and second . . . someone dies. I know this professionally and personally.
But I won’t die, will I? I wonder if that belief is imbedded within human DNA? Or am I the only one foolhardy about mortality?
I will die.
Yes, yes, yes . . . I know that. But because of my flawed or faithful (or both) understanding of God’s promises, I try to focus on the present and serving others. Tomorrow’s day or death is beyond my control. But I’m not just a person of faith. I am a modern human, influenced by medical advances, scientific progress, and a rational view of the world. I don’t think God sends lightning bolts to punish people or unleashes floods to warn nations. The natural world reveals the cycle of life, the passage of seasons, the birth and growth and demise of all sentient beings. Creation continues. Evolution happens. Entropy is . . .
I will die.
I have a DNR and a POLST. I have a health plan. I have above average intelligence. I procrastinate, but also try to prepare.
But can we really prepare for death? Do we avoid our demise in conversations with loved ones, or in the relatively simple act of completing paperwork, because dying and death are for tomorrow? Whether it’s our religious beliefs or in our DNA, are we designed to live and breathe and—even as we age—to pretend we have an ample supply of tomorrows?
The professionals in hospice are just like you. They are “built” for life and not death.
Should you, if facing a terminal illness, invite hospice into your life and home?
I hope you do. I hope I do. And sooner rather than later!
Every hospice is different and I can’t promise anything about their procedures, policies, or personalities. But I’m confident about one thing: the doctors and nurses and social workers and chaplains and home health aides and volunteers all understand one thing: we want to live today.
They are just like you, and will help you live . . . today.
++++++++++++++
Photo by Michael Held on Unsplash
My book, A Companion for the Hospice Journey is available at Amazon.
I don't fear death it self. As a widow who misses my husband I will actually some day welcome it. Its the possible chaos and suffering leading up to that moment of release that I fear.