In our profession, we have the absolute privilege – as well as the terrible curse – of being witness to so many goodbyes. People think we get used to it, but the truth is, we really don’t, and I think, as soon as we do, if we lose the awe of entering into these intimate spaces, we need to change careers. We owe it to the people we serve to honour their fragility and their vulnerability by allowing ourselves to be totally genuine. We also owe it to their loved ones.
For the past few months, I’ve been spending time with a group of friends discussing the stories of our lives. If your life were a book, what would be written in it? Some lives would be adventure books filled with travel and escapades, others would be horrors, I’m sure. Just read our newspapers. There’d be incredible love stories and as I have realised, many more tragedies than what is fair. I suppose some genres would be DIY books on how to do things, make things, achieve things and then probably some self-help books about how to overcome and thrive, but in the end, I wonder, what book really matters? What makes a book worth reading and a life worth living and living well?
Full disclaimer, I will not reveal the answer here, as I definitely do not have it (not in full anyway), but I do want to share with you what I have learnt here, in the profoundly sacred space of palliative care.
Every life matters. Every life ends too soon. Every life leaves either wounds or grace in its wake, and it is up to each one of us to make sure it is the latter. Early yesterday morning, I spoke to the daughter of a mom, Mrs Naidoo, who gently slipped away just as the sun came up. I didn’t know the mom very well, but got to know her through her loved ones. The way children, grandchildren, friends and family kept showing up, I knew she was loved. Relationships were intact, people were allowing space for each other and the important things were said long ago. No one had to make rushed last-minute confessions, apologies or speeches. She was too young to die, and the family was not ready, but her life was lived well. No one doubted they were loved and no one tried to get her to sign another will (you’d be surprised how often we see this). During my many conversations with Mrs Naidoo’s loved ones, they didn’t once mention the car she drove, the holidays she took, the degrees she held or the important people with whome she socialised. They spoke about how she made them feel loved, how she was there to guide and console them and how she made the best Biryani this side of Durban. She volunteered at a hospice shop, gardened and baked. She had a dog. She hated coriander, which is almost sacrilegious for an Indian! She would make up fairytales she’d relay to her grandchildren over the phone. She taught her kids to swim in a neighbour’s pool while the neighbour was at work. She chewed her nails. She had a wonderfully ordinary life and in its simplicity, taught those around her what really matters at the end of the day. Mrs Naidoo lived a life that makes me wish I did not just meet her right at the end, but could have gotten to know her better. I would have liked to be her friend.
On the other hand, we have people who come to us for end-of-life care, and no one shows up to see them. No phone calls are made. Sometimes they are still working and sending emails and Excel spreadsheets, even though their time on earth is just about over. The reality is that they have no one to whom they can say goodbye, and maybe in this way, they are frantically hoping to matter after they die. Some other people come to us, and we are given to task to make sure certain visitors don’t overlap because relationships are so strained that people mostly show up to say they were there, but actually never go in the room for more than a minute or two. Some patient’s family apologise to us, repeatedly, because they know what kind of person we are caring for. I wish I could unsee all the family arguments outside rooms about who will be entitled to what.
I’m not sure which chapter you are at in your book, but do you pause to ask yourself what you are writing? If this is your last chapter, are things in order? I am not just talking about your last will or your advanced life plan or your policies (although, this is important… for goodness sake, tell someone what your passwords are) but are your relationships healthy? Have you forgiven and do you need forgiveness? Have you showed and told those you love that you do? Have you thanked those who have made sacrifices for you or helped you? Have you left the legacy you wanted? Is it one of generosity and service, of upliftment and love? Will you be like Mrs Naidoo, who didn’t get as long a story as she would’ve liked, but had a beautiful one none the less?