This week, I am lucky enough to be writing the blog from the bush. I’m looking out over the Crocodile River. It is wonderfully quiet, except for a chunky hippo grunting loudly, and I can smell Africa at her absolute finest. My hair is wild. I did not pack any make-up, and I am eating as if I have a desire to be on a “before” photo of Ozempic. I can hear my husband telling his oldest friend (yes, it is both his friend of many years, but also his actual oldest in years) , a story they both know, and have listened to ad nauseam. We are all incredibly relaxed, I enjoy the familiarity of the bush, the unconditional acceptance of old friendships and the lack of work/home challenges, and I am settling into a state of total comfort.
The idea of “comfort” has had such a bad rap lately. Think of the motivational sayings you see on the poor joggers’ vests training for Comrades:
“Comfort kills progress.” “No growth in the comfort zone.” “Comfort: where dreams go to die.” And then of course, the famous platitude when things are inexplicably tough: “God is more interested in your character than in your comfort.”
But today, as I am reaching for my gin and tonic, I want to stand on my soapbox for a moment and confess, that I am all for comfort. There is a space for it – even necessity perhaps – and I suspect that it’s partly because our carers and our clinical teams know this, that we achieve the results we do.
Last week, an international medical insurer removed one of their patients (Angela) from hospital, because they knew the patient would be much more comfortable with us at the Recovery Lodge. I told the case manager that Angela should rather stay in hospital a bit longer, but they insisted that she needed a more holistic approach for the rest of her medical journey. That’s an incredible assessment, especially coming from an insurance company, in an age where institutional care is almost the only care Western medicine offers. Angela was exceptionally frail, on an oxygen concentrator and being fed with a naso-gastric tube. Soon after her arrival, my carers put her favourite colour lipstick on her and brushed her hair. Her PJs were crisp, and after confirming with her family, her favourite music was playing. These are all small things, but they made no small difference in Angela’s life and experience. This is what brings us comfort, isn’t it? The familiar sounds and smells, and the things that remind us of who we are. Simple little comforts like physical touch (her daughters can visit anytime and hold her hand as we do not have visiting hours), the familiarity of having a warm bath in a bathroom you do not share and things that really aren’t that difficult to do, doesn’t just bring a sense of luxury, but restores dignity after endless rough “wipe-downs” in an ICU where rushed nurses forget to close curtains.
Dr Jodi and I giggled recently because we’ve had a few patients at Zazen lately who arrived as EOL (end of life), but then started getting better, to such an extent that I mistook one patient for a visitor as she sat under the tree, dressed in a bright blue dress, ordering a cappuccino. Recently we welcomed a young man with a rare and awfully aggressive cancer. He is here because there are no treatment options left for him. We met him last year when we looked after his mom in her last week of life. I hope that it was a comfort for him then already to know he would come back here to people who served his mother well. I hope there is comfort for the family that their brother and son will be in a place where people still genuinely care and veritably nurture.
Maybe the reason we can not “sell” comfort in institutions or listed companies is because we can not bottle it. There is no one-size-fits-all. I find comfort in a good book, the laughter of my children and the familiar feel of my husband’s hand. Some people find comfort in routines and the predictability of life. A friend of mine finds it in meditation and silence. Some nutters find it in doing ultra-marathons or hanging from cliffs. My neighbour’s daughter finds it in loud music dotted with swear words. (I hope her parents read this!) I believe we all find comfort in deep connection and authentic relationships. I love that we can find different ways to connect and comfort one another, and that in our different set-ups between Recovery, Zazen and Hospitality, there is a fit for everyone’s comfort, and just as importantly, the comfort of their loved ones.
Patients’ needs and desires often surprise us. If one is just willing to take the time to listen to what will add that touch of comfort, you’d be surprised how much easier patient care becomes. Allowing pets to visit makes people so incredibly happy that they often forget to focus on their ailments or pain. More than once, we’ve accommodated couples in the same room, while they were both ill, and we were always surprised at how well they did as their “comfort” literally was their spouse’s nearness! Chef Dylan has cooked all kinds of recipes provided to him by patients longing for meals that remind them of home or a loved one. People bring photos from home and decorate rooms with sentimental knickknacks. We’ll often allow ventilated patients a drop of their favourite food on their tongues to remind them of who they are. I’m so grateful we have the wiggle room, and of course the time, to make our guests’ comfort a priority in big and small ways..
I have an aunt I absolutely adore. I’ve known her my whole life and I remember, years ago, how after having my heartbroken (read obliterated) I cried so much that she squeezed me to her chest, physically brushed my teeth and put me to bed. The heartbreak is long forgotten, but the reminder of the space of comfort she created for me will always stay with me. Someone who loves you, wants to fix you, knows what you need without you even having a clue and puts you in a soft comfy bed is probably not something you need a PhD to do, but makes all the difference. Comfort is simple, but so powerful… for healing and recovery, for gentle endings and just for being human.