Bittersweet Spaghetti

Spaghetti. Garlic bread. Chips...just in case.

Rachel and I headed to the Hospice floor at the hospital this evening to serve dinner to the families and friends of two patients. Having talked to the nurse earlier in the day (thank you Kristin for all the info!), I was under the impression there wouldn't be many people there, bringing slight relief, as I was unsure I had enough food. I called back right before I started cooking to find out from Sally (thank you for checking with everyone!) that there were seventeen people on the floor...uh oh. And four staff members. Food for twenty-one. Okay. Let's see what we can do....

We loaded up the car, trying not to spill the meat sauce, because somebody doesn't seem to have lids for everything and has to use tin foil. Note to self: more real Tupperware. Having not been to the sixth floor of the hospital in three years, there was a tiny twinge of anxiety. I was in such a whirlwind before, I can't really remember what it was like, what the vibe would be. Right off the bat, the nurses were so welcoming, so fantastic. They gave us our space to set up and told me I could go tell the families when everything was ready. It was very quiet. For an hour, things were very quiet.

We had the opportunity to talk with a few of them, though most (understandably) took their plates back to the room. There were painful moments, difficult stories to hear. The general tone of that hallway was somber. The moment they walked into the kitchen to fill their plates though, you could almost feel the fog part...just for a short time. Some of them joked with each other, some gave firm but loving support. Some were silent. But all were so kind, so appreciative. Hopefully, some were hungry, and it was a chance to step outside it for a moment to rejuvenate. I remember what it's like to realize you haven't eaten in days. I remember what it's like when you realize the only thing normal to you anymore is a hospital room.

Our experience on that floor was primarily joyous, which I recognize is not the case for most people. We were all so lucky to have experienced the best week many of us had ever (have ever) had. Having been caught up in the swirl of music and laughter and inspiration and constant activity, I didn't realize that I had missed out on something crucial until today.

Three years ago July 21st, I fell asleep with Tim in his bed, having not slept for something like 35 or so hours. In the neighborhood of 1am, with just a handful of people still there, Mark came in to wake me to go home. Knowing he had a matter of hours, I was hesitant, but somehow, it really was time to go. I had cuddled my 'goodbye' to the sounds of YES and rattled breath. And we left. Remaining there was a small group of wonderful friends of Tim's, and there was much comfort in that. This included my mother, who called me not an hour later to say we had but minutes, holding the phone to his ear to talk with him, into another place and time. If you were there, you still think about these few minutes. You remember. You know. And with that last breath, at just the right moment, came total silence. No one breathed. No one cried. Not yet. It was just too perfect to weep. But then I did, sobbing, still on the phone with no one for what seemed like an hour.

I was never crushed that I wasn't physically there, because if you were there, you know. You understand. And I could hear him...all of them...all of us together. I was there. Or was I?

Tonight, as were began packing up what food was left, Kristin asked if I'd like to go in his room. It seemed perfectly natural to do this, and I felt no anxiety in it at all as I walked toward 604. As soon as the door opened, it was as if I had been there yesterday, and I was seeing this empty bed for the first time...because I was. I can't remember the last time I sobbed like that. The next five minutes in that room was something I never knew I needed. I had a sense of closure I didn't know I was lacking. An empty, sterile hospital bed, next to that big, Tim-sized recliner. I never got to feel him leave that room....until today.

Hospice nurses, you are a gift to humanity- molded from honesty, depth, empathy, and purpose. Your job description should read The ability to just be. And that is, by far, the most difficult thing in this world to achieve. All who have been in your presence hold a life-long appreciation for this gift. Thank you.

What I went to do was serve spaghetti to people who needed a little nourishment of body and spirit. What I walked away with was a collective 'knowing', a bittersweet journey down a hallway and into a room, shared with seventeen other people who need not say a word.

The Nurses of Hospice at Licking Memorial Hospital:
Dawn B.
Jeanie B.
Gina R.
Kristin S.
Sally B.
Deb V.S.
Vicky K.
Cheryl T.
Tania B.
Judy D.
Kelly S.
Connie O.

For the lovely conversation, for all your help, for a hug, and for opening that door....
You know who you are.

Thank you.