On my way home, a flurry of thoughts consumed me. For one thing, I momentarily found myself in an odd sort of selfish regret - regret for all of my deep relationships. How odd... to regret forming close bonds with other people. In evaluating my regret, I realized it was caused by one thing: the fear of the inevitable moment when I will lose one of those beloved people. My grandparents are all still, by God's grace, alive and well, and we have always been an extremely close-knit family group. I am not naive to the fact that they will not live forever, but when I'm listening to my favorite radio station or thinking about what I'll have for a bedtime snack or how our school day will go tomorrow, all of us seem immortal.
A second thought that has overwhelmed me is that of how unduly blessed I am. I have never experienced the death of a close loved one. I have never known that kind of intense pain. I don't know how - in 32 years - I have managed to escape that, but I have. The other fear that accompanied that thought was that now, because my grandparents are all aging at the same time, I'll likely lose them in succession that will be even more difficult to bear. Even the thought is overwhelming to me - in an emotional sense.
And then I start to wonder if I am "cut out" for this type of volunteering. After all, I have cried twice, and I've never even seen a single patient. However, if anyone had ever told me in my younger years that I would be divorced, be a single mom, get remarried, move to another state, move back, be a step-mom, and have 5 children - whom I would homeschool, I would probably have lost my mind prematurely (as opposed to gradually, day-by-day, like I am now). I'm no feminist, but I have to say that I have seen myself and hundreds of other women handle life-altering situations - from birth to death and everything in between - with grace and poise and beauty that might even make the angels marvel. In contrast, I have also seen us do some of the most petty, ridiculous, silly, and temporal-minded things on earth. We wrap ourselves up in these tiny, little worlds where trivial things are of the utmost importance. We pressure ourselves and each other to be our own version of perfect. We convince ourselves that somehow these little issues and arguments are "life and death". That becomes less possible to do when you're sitting around a table of widows and moms who have lost children. When you sit with people who have fought cancer... who have lost a child... who have watched a spouse walk out the door... who have held the hand of a dying loved one... perspective isn't just a possibility - it's a guarantee. It slaps you upside your head.
After I came home, I sat on my youngest son's bedroom floor with him. We opted for the washcloth wipe down - which, at our house, is somewhere between the spit bath and the full bath/shower power wash. As I took out a cloth and began to wipe down my son's feet and legs with it, I was magically transported back to his infant massage class. That squirmy, little, baby boy who was so ticklish from head to toe that he had a hard time sitting still for his infant massage... he's now a 3 1/2 year old, rambunctious (still ticklish) guy who now enjoys a few minutes of toddler massage with his mom. He doesn't even crawl away anymore. The sad part is... I don't do it every night - not even close. I don't take the moments nearly as often as I could. I take them for granted. We all do.
I doubt very much that anyone initially feels that he or she is "cut out" to sit by the bedside of a dying person and that person's family, but people sign up to do it every day. Each one of those people has a unique reason for doing it. My reasons are also unique and varied, but the one that I discovered tonight is that I need, not only to grow up, but to grow out. I have to get outside of myself... my e-mails, my phone calls, my daily grind. I have to get out of my selfish, small world - into someone else's small world. The difference is that they actually deserve to have a small world - a narrow focus. It's not only deserved; it's needful for them. I have no right or reason to feel sorry for myself or to pamper or baby myself along.
If you've read my blog much, you may have noticed that our family is day-to-day chaos. Someone is coloring the tile grout with a Sharpie or eating copious amounts of raisins to the point of impending diaper doom or combing their hair with a wet toilet brush, or shaving their eyebrows off (okay, this one hasn't happened yet - fingers crossed) on a semi-daily basis around here. Sometimes, that's enough excuse to feel sorry for myself, but I hope that this training (and the volunteering that follows) changes me into someone who doesn't fall into self-pity as easily as she has in the past. I want a broader perspective.
Maybe that's even partially (subconsciously) my motivation for taking the opportunity to volunteer at Hospice. I need to be made aware - in a very practical sense - that, for the most part, death is as much a gift as life is. It's a transition from one part of eternity to another. I have hope that, for me, it will be a more beautiful life than I'll ever know here.
"Do not fear what they fear; do not be frightened." But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have." 1 Peter 3:14b-15a.
