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| Category: The Sacred In Everyday Life |
Date published: May 25, 2005 |
Not Just Another Routine Visit
by Rita Ballard
I arrived for my visit at the usual time. M. was lying on the couch in her pink bathrobe. She was entwining the oxygen tube in her fingers, and had both of her legs up and crossed at the knee. She looked so playful for a minute, and I thought, that's great, she's feeling better. Then she saw me and said, "I'm sick." I repeated, "You're sick?" and went to sit next to her on the couch.
She was in a lot of pain, and told me that she'd been sick all morning (it was now 10:05 am). I asked her what was wrong, and she said she hurt. I asked where, and she said, "All over; my legs, my back, and my stomach." She said she wanted a pain pill.
I asked if she'd talked to the nurse and she said yes. She was very agitated and fidgety. I touched her leg, and she was very cold, so I covered her with a little throw blanket and I went to sit in the chair across from the couch. I sat and just watched her for a few minutes.
At one point she said that she wanted to die. The more agitated she became, the more uncomfortable I was feeling. She asked me to get the nurse so she could have some more pain medication. I walked down the hall to find a staff member, but there was no one on the floor.
I walked back into the room, thinking frantically of how I could get someone into the room that could help. I finally pulled the nurse's cord and immediately heard a questioning voice through the intercom.
I explained that I was visiting M. and she was in a lot of pain, and asked if someone could come up. The voice said that they already were aware of her situation. A few minutes later someone came into the room. After asking who I was, she explained that they'd given M. medication earlier, and that it was still 10 minutes too early for her to get anymore. She said that they had called hospice, and that M.'s gall bladder was acting up.
Although not getting more medication didn't please M. at all, the information relieved me immensely. At least I knew what was happening. I continued to sit and watch M., who continued to be in pain and acted very agitated, changing position every few seconds and saying how miserable she felt.
She stood up and walked over to the end of her bed and bent a little at the waist; then she walked over to the window by her bed and stood there for a minute or two. Finally she turned around and crawled onto her bed. She was lying in the center of the bed, crosswise, with her legs perpendicular to her body.
I noticed how uncomfortable and helpless I felt. I thought about my position there: I started as her hospice volunteer, but when I became a comfort care therapist I could no longer see her as a Providence volunteer, and I could no longer get information or feedback from hospice staff.
I was on my own, visiting her as a friend. Any information I received about her condition was from her, or not at all. On rare occasions staff would come into the room during my visits and I would get tidbits about how she was doing, but right then there was no one I could call, and M. was suffering. I couldn't just leave her like that, even though I could feel parts of me wanting to.
I was backing away emotionally from her pain, wanting to detach from it. Then I remembered something from the Washington State Hospice & Palliative Care Spring Conference that I'd attended just last week: Welcome Everything. Push Away Nothing.
I stood up and went over to M. I touched her feet, and they were like ice. I held her feet with my fingers curled in to her arches, and she liked that. (This is a therapeutic touch move to help stimulate energy flow.) After a while, I looked in her dresser and the first drawer I opened had socks in it; I chose a pair and put them on her feet. I wrapped her robe around her, and stroked her hair. I touched her, and she commented on how nice and warm my hands were.
I decided to use a little bit of therapeutic touch. I laid my palms on her back lightly, just allowing the heat from my hands to connect with her. She reached her hand back and guided my hands to where she wanted them - the small of her back - and she said, "My back hurts." I kept my hands there, on the small of her back, for quite a while.
In a few minutes she said she was going to be sick again, so I went and got the wastebasket and held it for her with one hand while I brushed her hair away from her face with the other. She retched repeatedly into the wastebasket, but nothing came up. I left briefly to moisten some kleenex with water and brought it back to her. She wiped her mouth and clutched the kleenex in her left hand, and lay back down on the bed. I began stroking her back and her hair.
M. visibly relaxed. Her breathing slowed. She closed her eyes and released some of the tension in her body. We stayed that way a long time - her resting and relaxing, and me rubbing her back and stroking her hair.
An hour and a half after I got there, I told M. that I needed to leave. I asked her if she was feeling ok, and she said that she was doing fine. This was a profound visit for me. I discovered that it doesn't matter one bit what your 'role' is in life; you do what you need to do to relieve suffering. Sometimes, we don't know ahead of time what we should do, or what we would do. But in the moment it will come to us, if we listen. It is so necessary to stay in the moment. M. gave me the opportunity to find parts of myself that I wasn't aware of, and I am grateful to her for that.
Rita Ballard is a virtual assistant and the owner of Healer's Helper. In addition, she works with two local hospices as a comfort therapist, using therapeutic touch and relaxation therapy with patients in transition. Visit her websites at http://www.healershelper.com and http://www.ritaballard.com.
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