I had a brief visit with one of my new hospice patients, today.
She's still in her home. Though it doesn't look very much like a home. Not as in how you and I would view/describe a typical home.
There were no sofa's, stuffed chairs, walls of photo's, personal items, drapes, carpets, cozy little things to make the room and house say "Welcome! Our family lives here! Come join us for a while.".
No. None of those things were there. Instead ... as too often typical of a home hospice patient... I walked into the main room (what once was the living room), to discover it had become a make-shift hospital room for the patient.
What once probably held many memories of family gatherings. Everyday, and special days, now held the frail being of someone who was clinging to those memories and feelings and people ... as best she could.
She was in a hospital bed - that looked as strange to be in that room, as if it were to be sitting in the middle of a parking lot. It seemed so out of place.
Yet, it served it's purpose. Holding this dear woman as best as a bed could. A bed that could alter and change to serve the purpose of making her day and comfort level easier. (But it didn't. Not really)
She was so frail, and covered with many blankets, none of which covered her fragility.
She could no longer move on her own, or speak on her own. But she could watch. And watch she did! Every move!
She watched me enter. She watched me draw to the side of her bed and warmly introduce myself. Not in baby talk, or elder-speak (as Hospice would put it). I didn't talk "down" to her. Why should I? She's a woman. Deserving of the natural way of conversation as any of us would have.
She knows she's different. Suffering. In need. Dependant.
Yet. She's independent! Independent of her feelings, her thoughts, her desires.
That's where I hoped to meet her at.
I asked if I could trim her hair, as they had called me to ask if I would come and give her a haircut to help freshen her mood.
I'm not licensed to do so, nor am I certified to be a cosmetologist. But, I've trimmed my share of hair over the years, and that's all they wanted done. I was honest with them. They were honest with me. "Yes! Please come!".
So with her smile of approval, and the soft draping of the softest material I had at home, I proceeded to make her comfortable for a little trim. It felt intimate to gently tuck in this soft blue material around her. To comb and sweep her graying hair to reveal where it's natural sway would be.
This stranger to me. And I to her.
We exchanged several smiles, while I snipped a little here a little there. Each time carefully taking the snippets and gently placing them in the nearby trash so they wouldn't land on her, or her bedding, thus making her itch or uncomfortable in any way. It was slow and methodical. And gave me time to truly think about what I was doing.
Cutting hair? No. Not that.
Time to think that I was gently helping someone who couldn't help themselves. And, I weep now ... as I think about how much that actually helped "me".
We all need to search for, and find, what that "helping" thing is we can do. Should do!
We all need it. We think we don't need it until we're in a dire position. But we're wrong. We all need it now. We all need to help one another, now. Simply because we should.
The bible tells of how the "washing of feet" was so important. Was it because of the dirt and dust that would gather on sandled feet? Perhaps.
Or was it simply because it would show us the true love and value of helping and being helped? That is what I now believe.
I finished trimming this wonderful woman's hair. She looked afresh. I ... felt afresh.
My helping her, helped me. *sigh*
