Sometimes when I walk into a home to see a patient, the first thing I notice is a hand. A hand stretching up to me, to shake mine. Only after the hand do I see the face in the bed. Sometimes a man, other times a woman, but always, always smiling. They offer themselves to me, by the touch of their hand.
I can't tell you how many times it's happened in the last year. Or how many times I think "this can't be happening" while I ponder on the mystery of the dying. They are so grateful to see me, so happy and so willing to share their journey. I marvel that many of them aren't worried about themselves anymore, they worry about those left behind.
"Take care of my wife" he begged me. I promised I would and the promise wasn't an empty one. Weeks after his death, his daughter called hospice. "My mother needs help." And help was sent. Months later a card came in the mail from the daughter. "Thank you" it said, "for helping my mother."
"It's ok" I whispered to myself, "we just did what your Dad asked us to do."
There could never be a better job, a better life than this. I am so grateful to them for letting me live it and hope that one day, I can reach my hand out to a hospice nurse as I take that final journey.
