Blurring Distinctions

Fact is often stranger than fiction and for providers of hospice care, that distinction is sometimes blurred. Few hospice nurses would argue that strange phenomena are simply part and parcel of the work. In many ways, these unexplained occurrences tell us that there are worlds within worlds and worlds beyond them. Hospice nurses are privy to the sacred and the profound.

Mr. C had come to us severely jaundiced. As in most cases of end-stage liver disease, he was partially obtunded, and his skin itched in a big way. He still had a sense of humor and I could tell that once upon a time he must have been a fun guy. During provision of bodily care, I asked him to hold my hand as I assisted him to roll on his side. He opened his eyes and fixed them on mine, saying with a weak smile “I’m going to hold on to your hand forever.” At some point I told him he needed to give me my hand back so I could care for other patients. The following day, Mr. C. was no longer able to communicate with us; he had entered through the doorway leading to death.

Hospice work can be very stressful and can take a toll emotionally, physically, mentally, and sometimes psychically. Mental health professionals would caution nurses not to take their patients home, metaphorically speaking, but to disengage when they have finished work for the day. But what happens if the patient won’t disengage?

Tossing and turning, reviewing possible causes of why sleep won’t come and steal me away, I whittle away hours on end until 4 o’clock am arrives. Was it the coffee? Did I eat too much of the wrong thing? Was I worried about something I needed to resolve? I spawned a checklist of possible sleep inhibitors and came up empty. I finally relegate my agitation to the full moon, get up, and make myself some eggs.

I return to bed and try again to sleep. It was then that I saw the image of Mr. C holding onto my hand. Remembering his words, I gently gather the light energy around us and bring it down and through our hands, releasing his grasp. I was obviously desperate for sleep, having conjured up this image as causation for my insomnia. Clearly, I had reached the bottom of my checklist barrel. Soon after, however, I fell into a deep sleep.

Reporting for duty the following day I learn that Mr. C had died. “When?” I ask. “4:55 am,” I am told. The line between the physical and subtle worlds is once again blurred. All it takes is one bold stroke from a brush laden with water from the Ocean of Existence that makes no such distinction.