Walking Each Other Home

Tag: grief

  • Start in the Corner

    Patsy Lynch Tolan was 69 when she died. It was a Wednesday, 23 years ago. The Friday before, my mother-in-law Mary had passed away after battling cancer. Uncle Phil, Mary’s brother, died the day after that. Because of all of that, my sister had come to be with my mom who lived with Jim and me.

    My mom was Patsy. She was my hero, my pain in the neck, my wise woman, my funny mom. And she loved to talk and maybe even gossip a bit!! She was homebound and on oxygen. The phone was her link to the world.

    Saturday, Jim and I visited with our uncle’s family. How weird that brother and sister should die a day apart!! We planned my mother in laws funeral, we gathered with the family. We grieved a woman who gave herself to all.

    My mom, with my sister, carried out her day on the phone, spreading the word of the deaths and being the bearer of the news. When I got home, I sat on her bed and told her of the day. We laughed at some things, smiled at others. Mom was the daughter of a funeral director. I was a granddaughter of one. We always had a thing or two to say about funerals. And when I told her what funeral home we’d visited, she said, “When I die, don’t use them. I don’t like how they embalm.” My mom, my sister, and I laughed at this thought.

    At about 4am Sunday morning, my husband Jim awoke to his mother’s voice telling him, “Go check Patsy!” We jumped up and heard a moan and ran into her room. My mother, Patsy, was lying sideways across the bed with a purple hue. Her bed was saturated with sweat. We called my sister in, and we called 911. The transport is a blur. I kept trying to say it would be ok, but she was so, so sick.

    The hospital Mom was taken to was not one we’d ever been to before. In the emergency room, the doctors said she was in respiratory failure. Her blood pressure was barely palpable. We’d always discussed she would not be intubated as she had significant lung disease, but now was the moment of truth. “Mom, if your heart stops do you want it restarted?” “No,” she whispered through short breaths. Months before I’d been talking about comfort measures. She told me she didn’t want resuscitation if it got to a point she could not breath on her own. Let her go and please make sure she was not gasping for breath. Her wishes.

    And so, I told the doctors at this hospital, that is no longer in existence, that we wanted comfort measures only. The doctors quickly began to criticize me for this choice. They kept telling me I was killing my mother! I don’t know why, at the most precise time, my mom’s doctor reached out to me. He’d cared for her for years. He spoke to the attending doctor at that hospital and told me to hang tough. I was doing everything right. My husband, having just lost his mom, was heading off these doctors and telling them to step away from me as I was so overwhelmed. We continued with comfort measures. And she was. And I couldn’t believe any of this was happening. Me the hospice nurse of so many years!!

    Oh my heart! My mom, who’d been sick since I was 10 or 11, who cared for me as best she could and who I cared for as best as I could, was leaving me! She’d suffered physically for years with pain and debility. She had to rely on family and friends to care for her. And they did. Her brother, sister and nieces and nephews. When as a child I was overwhelmed when we had to pick up the mom tasks, I’d tell her I didn’t know where to start! She’d say, “take a deep breath and start in the corner.”

    Start in the corner. How many times in life are we hit with overwhelming circumstances. We just aren’t sure what to do next. I used her advice then. Start bedroom cleaning going into the corner of the bedroom, throw out trash, dust the table, make the bed, vacuum the rug. Start that hard class at school by taking small steps. Calm a room or person by taking a hand or a moment of compassion. Keep your eye on the doable and little by little the task is done. One of my greatest life lessons. My smart, wise mom.

    The week from hell continued. My mother-in-law Mary had a viewing Monday evening. I was there for a short time and then went to sit with my mom. Overwhelmed with it all, I looked at the hospital doorway and there stood my fellow hospice nurse Sinead. Sinead, from Ireland, learned of my mom’s illness when she went to my mother in law’s viewing. She came to be present. She walked in the door to my great JOY. She opened the window of the room a crack and undid the covers from the bottom of my mom’s bed. She went into her purse, pulled out a cream and began to put frankincense on my mom’s feet. She said she was making way for my mom’s soul to leave the room to heaven. She looked at my mom and my family and said, “Don’t worry Pat. Mary’s finishing up her orientation up there and then she’ll be back to get you!”

    Tuesday came and we sadly buried the best mother-in-law one could have.

    Wednesday, April 24, 2002, my mom Patsy, left to follow Mary to orientation. To be with the angels. And with her God.

    Thursday, we laid Uncle Phil to rest. Another beloved member of my in-law family.

    Friday, we had a viewing for my mom. All week the crowds were there, long lines. Many and most of the same people. Now when mom had died, I asked my sister if we should just use the same funeral home we’d used all week. She said, “sure.” So off we go to the funeral home mom didn’t want. Cause she didn’t like how they embalmed. As I crept into the viewing room, I was almost afraid to look. But laying in the casket was my beautiful mom. And she looked beautiful and peaceful. And my sister Pam and I were so sadly happy. Our beautiful Mom, Patsy Lynch Tolan, was without pain at last. She was at peace. And she was beautiful!!

    And Saturday, she rested. The corner was complete.

  • Humble

    Sometimes, just when you think you are doing well, you get a little humbling shove from God. I remember as a child taking ice skating lessons. I was clinging to the instructor so I wouldn’t fall. As I gained more confidence, I let go and looked for my friend yelling “Look at me!” And my feet lifted off the ice and BAMM! Down I went.

    As a hospice nurse and director, I had many humbling experiences. Some funny, some not. Working as a home hospice nurse, I had an orientee with me. She was orienting to on call, and we were called out at 2 am to put a new IV in a young woman waiting for a heart lung transplant. She required medication and could not go without it. We met at the residence and went in, speaking to the patient and family and finally were able to locate a vein and start an IV. And it was a hard IV. We ended up finding a vein in her thumb. I was really impressed with myself!! As we were leaving, I said my goodbyes and opened the door to leave. The orientee too said her goodbyes and walked out behind me closing the door. At that moment, I realized we’d walked into and closed the closet door, not the apartment door!! Sheepishly we opened the door, enjoyed our laugh and left!! Great orientation!!

    A favorite patient of mine was an Irish gentleman. I loved visiting him. Except he had a bird. A parakeet who flew freely. And the parakeet would always head for my head when I went in. He was trying to land. I was trying to duck!! I took to putting a throw pillow on my head when I visited. Didn’t do much but give the patient a good laugh. One day on my way to visit I saw a craft store and went in and bought a fake bird with a wire. I wired it onto the corner of my glasses and walked in the home like nothing was different. No flying bird, but a crying hysterically patient. Sometimes we let down our pride!

    But I remember less funny humble moments. I was diagnosed with macular degeneration over 20 years ago and recently, was noticing changes in my depth perception. In the meantime, several members of our hospice staff had developed COVID. Staffing was challenged and I volunteered to help out 3-11 in the hospice inpatient unit. I offered to do whatever the nurse wanted me to do to help her. She sent me to deliver eye drops to a patient who was not responsive and whose eyes were dry. We needed to provide drops to help her comfort. As I was preparing to administer the drops, my central vision could not determine exactly where to drop the liquid. Drops spilled onto the patient’s cheek and in her eye, thank goodness. Minutes later, the nurse asked me to flush an IV and my central vision didn’t allow me the coordination to connect each end. I asked the person I came to help, to help me. It is humbling to admit you cannot do something you’ve done time and time again. The nurse was kind. “Thank you for coming in. I’ll take the things that need hand to eye coordination. Just you being here makes me thankful.” Of course, the story spread. We could laugh, but no one ever let me give them an injection again!!

    In the early 1990s as AIDs was becoming more common place, we still were not entirely sure of transmission. I always believed myself fearless. I’d always do anything I’d ask my staff to do. I also knew that providing hospice care carried an emotional drain on people. So often they’d come in to chat or laugh or just be heard. One day one of my nurses ran into my office, threw his arms around my neck and began to sob, uncontrollably. He told me he’d been diagnosed as HIV+. His tears were running down my arm, and for a brief second, I thought “Oh, no! Would I get AIDs? ” I knew not, but I still thought…Humbling. Enlightening.

    To say the least I’ve been humbled so far this year with illness and its burdens. I’ve learned though, that becoming humble allows for introspection and grace. Humility lets others help me and hopefully learn from that. Humility says let go. Laugh, cry, learn. It’s all good.

    Humility helps me to surrender to something greater.

  • The Power of Touch

    My first patient as a student nurse was an elderly man who I will call Max. Alone in a bed. Isolated. No visitors. Max wouldn’t eat. He laid with his eyes closed. He seemed neither here nor there. My first instinct was to touch his hand and whisper his name. “Max”, I said. He opened his eyes. Touching his hand, I made sure his eyes were close to mine and I smiled at him. Slowly his eyes focused and I saw a light, a connection. I moved my hand to clasp his all the while quietly being. He responded by moving his fingers around mine. It started an amazing journey for me and hopefully a kindness for Max.

    As i experienced more and more interactions with my patients, I found the human touch and presence mattered greatly. I felt and feel a presence, a connection through touch. Connection of sharing strength, sorrow and hope. I think back to when I was sick or sad. What made all the difference to me? My mom’s touch on a fevered brow, my dad’s hug. When my mom became more disabled and couldn’t hug so much I remember the caress on my hand or head that made me know she was there. She cared. I was not alone.

    My nursing career took me to hospice and working with the dying

    The first nurse I met in hospice was caring for my Aunt Kitty. The nurse came into Aunt Kitty’s room, have reclined on the bed near her. She took her hand and said, “what would make you feel better today? What do you want to do?” She was allowing a dying person control and choices. And gently with her hand telling her she would be there.

    As I began my work, I would find myself reaching out for a hand or wiping a brow. Quiet words would tell people, “You’re not alone.” I felt as if God was sending some comforting waves through my hands allowing his graces and kindness to be transmitted to the dying. A midwife of souls.

    At times there was humor. My one lovely lady was dying of breast cancer. Her chest had a lesion I would treat every day. I guess I’d hum as I did the treatments because one day Mrs. H said, “when I am dying, would you sing the Ave Maria to me as I die?” I looked at her and she was serious. I said, “Mrs. H, the last thing you want to hear as you are dying is ME singing the Ave Maria!” We both laughed. A few days later it was evident she was dying. I felt compelled to try and sing to her. I asked some other nurses, “please find me the words to the Ave Maria!” They brought me the wrong rendition. It was growing close. I took her hand and stroked her hair. I told her it was ok to go, and I hummed the Ave Maria. And I felt the presence of God about. And she peacefully slipped away.

    Words matter, touch matters, compassion and presence matter. How we walk each other home matters.

  • Walking Each Other Home

    The power of presence

    When I hear or see a quote, I copy it. If it touches my heart and makes me think. Lately I am reflecting on people who’ve touched my life and helped shape my journey. Hemingway said, “What we truly need is the power of human connection: a quiet presence, a gentle touch that reminds us we’re not alone.”

    Life has given me many twists and turns. My mom became physically disabled when I was 10 or 11. But she was just my mom. Always my mom. She’ll be gone 23 years this year. Losing your mom is hard at any age. I miss her every day. Her presence gave me hope and courage. Every day, prior to her disability limiting her mobility , she’d leave me a message on my blackboard in my bedroom. “Good morning P. Hope you have a great day! Love, M.” When she could no longer make it to my third floor bedroom because of her disability, she left the messages on my lunch napkin. “Good morning P. Hope you have a great day. Love, M.” What a boost to my day. What a connection. What a presence.

    Years later, as mom became unable to live alone or care for herself, she came to live with my husband and me. Never any question. We learned we always take care of our own. Mom’s presence gave us great joy and lots of laughs. Her first night after moving in I got in bed and whispered to my husband “This is different.” To my dismay, my mother answered from her room!! Ut oh!!! What happened to the walls? How did she hear that?! Stay on your side of the bed, I told Jim!!

    Mom’s presence brought a renewal of traditions and created new ones. She was my greatest cheerleader. She was my biggest headache. Tired after working all day she’d say, “Can you give me a shower?” Ugh…of course. She felt like a burden, and I would remind myself that someday I would miss this time. Shower time became caring time, gentle time. Laughing time.

    How does the spouse cope. Well….it took time. But my husband became the true son. One day during a bad health episode, she whispered to him, “take care of my baby.” Tears everywhere. She was his copilot in the car as I took advantage of naps, and his co police radio reporter. We became the three musketeers.

    So as I contemplate her presence in my life, I am grateful for her lessons. Keep moving forward. Have courage. Have faith. Love each other. Take care of each other. Be not afraid. Walk each other home.

    Today, I say to you mom…”Dear M. I hope you are having a great eternity in heaven. Thank you for showing me how to face adversity. How to love tradition, laughter and life. How to have courage and selflessness. Miss you. Have a great day. Love P.”