Afraid of the Dark – 5/18/04

Many of us have been afraid of the dark, at least during our childhood. And a few of us even admit to still feeling that chill down our spines as we rush to hit the light switch on the wall.

I remember as a child, whining in protest when my mother asked me to get her something from a room that was saturated in darkness. “But Mom! Do I have to?” Somehow she figured out that it was the dark I was afraid of and not the chore itself that I was resisting.

“Okay, what you need to do is to sing. If you sing the whole time you’re in the dark, nothing can get you.” My mother’s logic always worked for a child’s mind. Though the strategies she used to temporarily alleviate my anxieties probably prolonged the fears in the long run. i.e. There actually is in fact something that will "get me" if I don't sing.

So I tried singing my way to the light switch or to the said object that my mother was sending me off in search of. Hearing my own voice out loud helped some. But I continued to struggle against the instinct to run. Walking through darkness was like walking in a pool of water. My legs felt heavy with the desire to flee. My eyes would fixate on the light ahead or the light switch seen in the black-and-white haze of the night. And I would feel the darkness racing up against my back; its crooked fingers lurking just above my shoulders, breathing its cool breath down my neck. The relief when I escaped the darkness unscathed or when I reached the light switch would slowly melt away in a similar fashion to how my eyes would adjust to the light.

When I was a child, the darkness represented ghosts and goblins. Darkness, it is well-known, is a symbol for the unknown. Now when I sit in darkness, and consciously feel the uneasiness, I immediately think about death. Not my death specifically nor anyone else’s death for that matter. But death as a concept and my feelings about it.

For the first time, I’ve noticed that I no longer feel the same level of fear. When S and I moved into this apartment, I gave credit to the new dwelling. Something about this structure seemed more comfortable, despite its history being plenty long enough to have ghosts of residents past skulking in each corner of every room. Even now as I write, our apartment is swathed in darkness, so that S can sleep while I entertain myself for the remaining hours I must remain awake in order to stay on a semblance of my night shift schedule. But there is only a mild uneasiness as I nestle into the darkness now.

Could it be because we now have a dog whom I trust would bark if there were an intruder? Or could it be that the hours from sunset to sunrise have lost their element of alarm because I’m on a night-shift schedule? Or could it be that dying is less of an unknown now that I see it on a regular basis through my job?

In any case, I am glad to finally make the darkness my friend.

Instead, now the pitch black midnight walk to the bathroom comes with a whole new set of fears...

"Meow!"
"Oooh, sorry, Kitty, I didn't mean to step on you."

"Ouch! Rover, please don't leave your dog bones in the middle of the hallway!"

The eeriness of shadows hasn’t totally left me - nor am I totally hunky dory with death, for that matter. But these newer fears don't seem anywhere near as terrifying as the old ones once were.

Tub O' Brains

I had originally posted this on a different blog of mine, seeing the subject matter not suitably serious enough for this site. But I've decided that in all honesty, death and things related to it can be rather absurd. And that is the simple truth. It's also important to me to point out the humor behind death. Dying doesn't have to always be so heavy and serious. So, here is an only slightly inappropriate story that I will share.

I was showing Dan, one of my fellow co-workers, how to take a body to the morgue during night shift the other night - you see, it requires a little work and know-how to drop off a body at night as there are no staff in the morgue after hours. So you must get a key from security and sign the body in yourself.

So I am in the morgue with Dan, showing him the ropes (or the cadavers as the case may be). And I remembered that Jude, another co-worker of ours, had given me instructions as to where to go to view random formaldehyded organs. I had visions I'd probably picked up in movies of glass jars with eyes staring out at me; and Jude had insisted that the parts were kept under black light. These misguided bits of info delayed my finding the treasures.

But I finally found them. However, instead of glass jars of eye balls under black lights, we found small tupperwares labeled "brain." These were just like the tupperware you'd get takeout in. I will never look at take out the same again! And there was no black light, just a nauseatingly bright florescent illuminating the shelves and shelves of human tissue marinating in embalming fluids.

And then off in the far corner, we saw it. The Tub O' Brains. This piece of tupperware must've been the size of a small bathtub. And through the smokey haze of the white plastic container, we were able to easily make out human brains floating in a liquid bath. For days, casual talk between Dan and me of tupperware and dreams of tupperware have carried a whole new meaning.

Death Dream 5/4/04

you can tell I'm in school when I'm dredging up old postings for this site. :-) I posted this to a different blog before I had this one focused on death and dying. Though it would give some insight as to the process I've gone through in coping with working with the dying.

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I had an intense week at work. Two patients died. They were both on the palliative care service, so I expected them to die, but their deaths affected me pretty profoundly.

So I really, desperately want to work with patients who are dying. I am already doing this work, but I am still such a novice. I have so much to learn. And learning to help people die well is changing me in amazingly beautiful and powerful ways that are difficult to describe in brief. But the start of this work – nursing school – nearly destroyed my relationship with S. This was a cost I had never anticipated that I might have to make in order to do work which has so much meaning for me.

I just woke up from a dream tonight, woke up literally moments ago. In the dream, I was having a deep conversation with my younger cousin J; he was in a crisis in life and lost and alone. I spent a lot of time listening to his struggle. I then did my best to provide him with reassurances – both that he is an amazing person and that he is not alone in his struggles. After our conversation came to a natural and satisfying end, I had the sense that I was running out of time. As I left him to go find S, I heard that movie sound effect of a mass of army boots marching in unison, but this time it was real. I could tell by the decibel of the sound that the army was only about a block away. My hometown was being invaded. The war was going to move onto U.S. soil. Though philosophically, I have always thought it was fucked up that we as a country get involved in so many wars abroad and don’t ever have to live with the reminders of how war affects individual people in their every day lives who live through wars on their soil. Not to discount 9/11 – New Yorkers who lived through that day have a much closer sense of what days and nights of bomb raids must be like. But if the entire country had had the experience of wondering if the next bomb would land on their house, perhaps more people would stand up to protest the wars we get involved in. (But that is a whole 'nother line of conversation – sorry I’m getting off track here). Regardless, I was, of course, terrified in this dream as the city I call home was being invaded. The most important thing at that moment was to get our dog who also happened to be with me, and myself back to S. I had the sense that our time in this life was running out. And all I wanted was for S and me and our dog to be together in the end. As I was rerouting our way home to avoid the troops, anxiously making sure our dog was keeping up with me, I awoke.

As I woke, I immediately rolled over to feel S's body in bed next to me and grabbed her hand.

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I have been working on understanding the four tasks for living and dying so that I can better help my patients through these tasks. The past two weeks, I have been profoundly altered (for the better) by my fresh understanding of the task of forgiving ourselves and forgiving the people who have hurt us in this life. Not that I have accomplished this task myself – I still have a large share of forgiving to do – but I suddenly understand the importance of forgiveness on an overwhelmingly bittersweet, deep level.

Tonight before falling asleep, I had been focusing on understanding the second task – the need to find meaning in life. In an explanation I found on the internet about the list of tasks, this task had asked the question: What are my priorities? Did I live my life according to them? And I guess my answer is still uncomfortable for me. This is something I’ve been asking myself ever since my cousin M died. Am I living my life according to my priorities? Honestly, I am still struggling to find that balance. But right now, I am desperately relieved that when I woke up from this dream, I wasn’t waking up from life finding that S was already gone. It’s not too late. In the dream and in life, I still have time to find her.

Growing Pains

I apologize for the technical difficulties this page is experiencing. I recently added the "trackback" feature. I was not warned by HaloScan that in the process, all prior comments would be erased. I have sent an official complaint to HaloScan, but have not heard back as to whether or not they can recover the comments. I have found all feedback to this sight incredibly insightful and informative and regret that this shared information has now disappeared. I have some old copies of some of the comments that were copied to my email and had not yet been deleted from my inbox. At some point, I plan to repost those to the best of my ability. I regret now not being more of a packrat and having saved all of the comments in my email as well, but I had trusted this system to keep them safe. Ah, well. But please do not let this mishap prevent you from making future comments. Your support and perspectives are invaluable to me.

The Lonely and Laughing Death Maiden - 5/6/04

So I am on a theme of digging up old posts from another site that I'm moving here. This one is the story of how the name of this blog came about...

I got teased today at work that I am a death maiden. Last night, when I came onto shift, I asked to work with one of the palliative care patients who was on our floor. Right as the day shift nurses were finishing up giving us report on our patients, a nurse came in to let me know that my palliative care patient had died. The patient was estranged from his family, so no one was at the bedside. His needs would be entirely limited to post-mortem care. I don’t mind doing post-mortem care, but I am much more interested in the psychosocial aspects of helping patients face their mortality and helping family members cope with loss. I was sad for this patient that he had died alone and while still estranged from his family, and also disappointed that I hadn’t had an opportunity to work with him.

So then tonight (well, is it still tonight when it is 2am?)… I came onto shift and requested to work with a different palliative care patient. Right after report, I started doing my initial rounds just checking in on each of my patients. I walked into this patient’s room and… she was no longer breathing. I listened and she had no heart sounds. Her family lives very far away; so again, there was no one at her bedside. So for the second night in a row, my job was limited to post-mortem care (though I did call the family and talk to them briefly over the phone).

When a new palliative care patient was then admitted to our floor, another nurse admitted the patient. She teased me, “Please don’t go into my patient’s room. I’d kind of like to keep him around – at least until the end of my shift.”

I had been really frazzled working with my other patients who had numerous issues going on. Still in a frenzy, I tried to convince her, “I think it’s just my very calming and peaceful energy that is reassuring and makes them feel safe enough to let go.” I had been joking, as my energy was far from peaceful and calm at that moment. But I think she thought I must be serious, as she didn’t laugh.

So they sent me home early, hoping to keep the rest of our patients alive.

That was supposed to be a funny ending, but actually, I volunteered to go home early. We were over-staffed and I was happy to sneak away. Maybe this work is twisting my sense of humor. Though how could it not? Emotions around death are bound to run high in whatever form they are able to escape.

Movie Review: Life as a House

I was asked if there are any movies about death that I am not particularly fond of. And, well, I thought I'd mention this one...

In this 2002 dramedy, the main character George (played by Kevin Kline) gets diagnosed with terminal cancer. Within this time frame, he is also laid off from the job he's worked at for 20 years. With the help of a hefty severance pay, he decides to spend his last summer building the house of his dreams on his land overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Simultaneously he decides to recruit his estranged son (played by Hayden Christensen) - who has blue hair and facial piercings - to help him build the house, hoping to rebuild their relationship in the process. Despite its occasional romantic humor and coming of age elements, this film would definitely be considered a cheap tear-jerker.

And once again, for Roger Ebert's opinion on this one. My momma always taught me, "If you've got nothing nice to say... let someone else be the critic." Ahh, if life always worked out so perfectly and cleanly in the end as it does in this movie.

On My Deathbed, Say to Me

The question of "how does one cope?" has come up numerous times throughout this blog. And I've struggled over how to answer that question when finally, the answer came to me. Well, the reason that I can't answer it came to me. I love my job. I don't view it as something to be coped with. Yes, I see some difficult things, I feel sorrow and grief watching some of these patient's die. But this job is incredibly rewarding to me. I see it as an honor to be part of these families lives as they are saying their goodbyes to their loved one. And if I can support them in that experience, if I can ensure that they make peace to the best of their abilities, that is the most beautiful thing I can do... with my life. In a comment, Jenny asked me, do you see your job as a calling? I do. Based on people's responses to various aspects of my job, it is clear that this job is not for everyone. But I am passionate about it.

And not only do I feel special for getting a window into these people's lives at such a vulnerable time and having a supportive role for them in what might be an incredibly painful experience, I am also changing and growing inside as a result of these expereinces.

For example, at some point after I started working with patients who are dying, I asked myself, "what would I want to hear if I were laying in my deathbed?" The question kind of lurked in my brain for weeks before I decided to seriously try to answer it. Here are some of the lines I came up with (and hopefully they would be more than just lines read by the person speaking them to me, but I suppose if I was alone and all my loved ones were missing, a stranger reading some of them would be better than nothing). Okay, some of them are a little hoakey and I'm mildly embarassed sharing them, but what the heck:

You are deeply loved.

You are surrounded by my love and the love of all of your friends and family.

You are forgiven for every and all pain or sorrow you've caused me or to anyone else.

I forgive you.

It's okay to go. You will be missed and you will live on in my heart and in the hearts of all of the people whose lives you've touched. I will miss you terribly, but I will survive knowing I'll always have you in my heart.

I wish you peace. I wish for you to be surrounded by the light of love and the light of life.

See the light before you and recognize it. Rest in the nature and peace of the light.

Trust. Trust as passively as if you were sitting enjoying sunlight warming your skin.

[Some of these lines came from a lecture by Christine Longaker.]

First of all, if I didn't work in this profession, I probably would never have thought about this. And I believe it is important for us to contemplate and prepare for our death as part of our life. We're all going to die. If we keep that in mind, we won't take our lives for granted.

And knowing what I'd want to hear on my deathbed will be useful information at some point. Useful for my loved ones for when I make it to my deathbed (hopefully later rather than sooner because there is more marrow to suck out of this life than I've gotten out of it yet). But it's also helpful for me in working with these patients and families to have contemplated for myself - what would be meaningful for them to hear? They would likely come up with a different list, though there may be some overlap. But I definitely try to help families uncover what potential unresolved issues from the patient's life may be lingering. What do they need to hear to make peace with their lives? So often these patients are unconscious, so we can't ask them what would be on their list. All the more reason to make our own lists now. And to make peace with others now. We may not be able to tell anyone when the time comes what would make our death experience more peaceful or more meaningful and less full of regret.

So... getting back to the question... how do I cope? By accepting life for what it is. Temporary and a mixed bag. As the Byrds sang, there is a time to live and a time to die, a time to laugh and a time to cry. And most of the time, I try to appreciate both.