Poetry?

It's been difficult lately to find the time...or the inclination... to write. I write oodles of essays in my head, as I go about the daily chores, but so far, none of them have been written on paper...or, I guess, these days on the computer.

I'm not sure if the Muse is taking a break, or if I'm just too busy these days to find the time to sit and listen to her, writing all the while.  Then, again, much of what I experience during the day I am unable to write about, at least publicly, because of confidentiality rules with regards to Hospice. But there is one place where she will visit, disregarding all the rules...

As I sit with patients, the ones who are unconscious or in a coma, I write what might be called poetry. The atmosphere in a dying person's room...the energy...is strong, like a powerful light. It's all-encompassing. I am completely present with the patient, then, completely focused. If the family is in agreement, I will give Reiki. I find it enhances the Light. The difference in the patient's well-being is palpable.

The Muse creeps in quietly, with great respect, during these times. She nudges my arm. My fingers begin to tingle, wanting to curl around my favourite pen. It is not long before I rummage through my tote for my moleskine, hoping all the while that there are enough empty pages left in it for me to fill. Once again, I have forgotten to change the notebook for a new, untouched one.

I rub my hand over the crenellated, worn leather of my moleskine, given to me so many years ago by Graham.  It's pages are filled with observations, sketches, reminders, essays...and suddenly, poetry.


Now, poetry and I have never gotten along. I admire others' poetry I read, wondering how so much emotion, discovery, and beauty can find their way onto the page, and still make sense.

And so, it is strange that I should now write very bad poetry in the rooms of the dying. But the urge to do so is really strong.


Before I write anything...even bad poetry...on the days when I'm sitting quietly with someone who is not lucid, I sketch a very quick drawing of the person. The drawing is only for me...it will never see the light of day...but sketches like these remind me the personality in the bed is still alive, still with us, still here. His dignity is supremely important.


Dying people have a special glow, a wondrous beauty about them. Faces seem to relax, once the diagnosis is made, the skin becoming clear and smooth. Most are pain-free at this point, sometimes for the first time in a very long time, if the patient has been ill over a lengthy period.


My drawings, then, are simple ones, shadings and lines and criss crosses. Sometimes, the lines are jagged, torn. I will draw their hands...I love to draw the hand. Most people, by the time I see them, will have relaxed the tight fists so apparent when there is still hope left within.


Faces become a mixture of mostly lines, shadings, sharp angles and planes. I draw where the sharp, black pen leads. It is peaceful...the room takes on a certain hush when a vigil is begun. The sounds of modern living in a care home are muted, far away...I am present only with the client and my pen.


When I am finished, I feel so much more comfortable with the client. The itch to know, the itch in my fingers has been appeased.


But only for a moment. Only long enough to check my patient, who by now...has become a friend.

And then. Then I want to write poetry, of all things. It is not exactly as if I want to write it. It is what comes out. And it is quite startling to me.


Words appear in my handwriting, words that are, at times, soft and gentle. At other moments, they become lethal and angry. And there are the grey ones, the ones that hush and moderate, the ones that seek balance and patience.

It only takes moments. And during the minutes I am in the zone, during the time it takes to write, I am fighting off an onslaught of emotional energy. I am well protected; I sense it is only a little more of the knowing of my friend.


I feel at peace, then. I hold my patient's hand, rub his chest, place my palm on her shoulder...with each touch, there is more calming, soothing energy imparted and I notice, as a result, an easing of lines in the brow and forehead.


And when I leave, when my shift has ended, I don't feel hypocritical when I say to my client I am glad to know him...because I do. I know him well. 


There is a downside...isn't there always? It is difficult to say goodbye with finality, when I leave. Sometimes I want more than just a few hours with a particular client. Rarely do I get what I want, in this case...it is out of my hands.


But. I have received a great gift. I have written long-forgotten words, I have drawn an image...a thought...of a life, the lessons, the gifts the dying person experienced.


And, never to be forgotten, I have made a friend.

It seems the Muse has not been ignoring me, after all. She comes when it is necessary.

She comes when I need her abilities to see me through the strange places I find myself exploring, these days.

The strange...and quite wondrous...World of Poetry.

Experience and Mistakes

When I began volunteer work with Hospice, I did not really know what to expect. I had taken a very comprehensive course on Hospice and what it's all about...it was experience I lacked. What would it be like to sit in silence for two hours with a dying patient? Or what on Earth could I say to people who have only hours to live?

I've made many mistakes. The one mistake I continually make is asking how a patient is feeling. And one day, one of the clients might just say to me...How do you think I'm feeling?

Or, I sometimes even go so far as to say...You look great today!...I want to take that one back as soon as it comes out of my mouth.

But there are times when a client is not conscious. During those visits, I sit and write. Sometimes I write about the client's life; tidbits gleaned from photos and books and belongings all gather together in my writing. Whether or not my writing is correct about all of it makes no difference...I write what I feel during what might be the last time I visit this particular client.

Long term palliative care patients have so many stories to tell! Living with Death as a very close partner cannot be easy; yet each client I have met mostly lives each day to the fullest, with as many jokes to tell as they can remember.


I was discussing marriage with one of them the other day. After looking at photos of the man and his wife in their car on the way to their honeymoon, I asked the man what he liked most about marriage.


Of course, as soon as I said that, I wanted to take the question back.  What if they had divorced, what if she had died and the gentleman in question was still sad about it, what if I had opened a can of worms?


And this is what it's like for me. I rarely know the clients well, I rarely know what their hobbies were, what their lives were like, do they like this or that? Do they like to be touched? Do they want to talk, or do they prefer silence? Do they even want me there?


But I know this long term palliative care patient as well as any. He loves to tell stories about his life; yet I rarely heard his wife mentioned in any of them. Which is why I wanted to take the marriage question back as soon as I had said it. Asking it felt a little like skating on very thin ice.


He thought about my question for awhile, looking into the far off distance. I held my breath...what had I begun? And then he nodded, as if the answer had just come to him.


He said...The best thing about marriage to me was that the house was always picked up. Yup...he said...that was the very best thing.

He was very serious when he said this. At first, I thought he was joking, since he loves to use humour. But he wasn't...and somehow I had to answer him without breaking out into a big belly laugh. I had to laugh inside instead, and mumble...Yes, that sounds nice...and leave it there.


I find arguing with a dying person intolerable, and won't do it, although given an answer like this to my question by a well person, I certainly would challenge it. There must be more to a marriage than a clean house! But not for Tom...


I visit a lady who is fully aware, yet due to a stroke she cannot form words. And much of the language she remembers is Native, which is very difficult for me to enunciate. I have a sheet of Native words; we practice them, she and I.  She smiles at the way I pronounce them...and yes, I have even heard her laugh. Once.

With this lady, I tell her about my week since I last saw her. I don't ask her any questions, other than whether she requires something to drink. I tell her how I miss the Coast, where my children are, I tell her about my garden and how it is not doing well. I read her stories, many of them posts done by my fellow bloggers. Blog owners of blogs like Enchanted Oak, Studio Lolo, Dragonfly's Poetry and Prolixity, Options for a Better World , Writing Down the Words, All Consuming and others have generously allowed me the use of some of their posts and art work.


With this lady, I will never know if something I've said is hurtful or out of place. When she gets tired of me, her body language tells me it is time to go. It may be after a half hour or five minutes...I no longer worry about whether it's because she's tired or decided she's had enough of my prattle.


But we have a relationship, she and I. With many of the clients, there is no time to form a relationship.

So many clients I have been involved with have died. When I began volunteering with Hospice, I thought I would remember them all. But, unless I look in my book, I cannot.


But when a client dies, I do a small ceremony here for them, by Grandfather Rock. He has absorbed much of my tears and sadness and even happiness, if the dying person was ready for the next journey.


It's the ones who are not ready who I cry over. The ones who have fought the inevitable, who insist and insist and insist it is not happening right until they become unconscious. And when the family is still in denial even at this stage...well, it is sometimes heartrending for me to see young people, especially, in tears at their terrible loss.

It is so much more difficult when death occurs without acceptance.

I will glean more and more experience with volunteering as the days, weeks, months and years go by. I know a volunteer who, by her very presence, can calm a whole room full of relatives of the just deceased. She's volunteered for years...there is not much she hasn't seen or heard.

She's the very epitome of experience and wisdom.

I strive for the same.


In just a few more years...



Work with Hospice is completely confidential. Therefore, patients I mention have been disguised or are a composite of many. Names have been changed.

A Tea of Balance and Clarity

As I drove home from Hospice training the other day, all I could think about was the reviving cup of Tea I was going to make as soon as I walked in the door.

There are refreshments served during the morning and afternoon in the conference room where the training occurs. And I could have Tea anytime I wanted.

But there is something about coming home from a long day trying to assimilate all the information we are given, making Tea and sitting down in a favourite chair.


Each time, I swear the World and its troubles recede a little. Tea allows me to meditate, allows me to calm the whirlwind which is creating havoc in my mind.

Tea is the preferred beverage for Monks throughout the World.  In my book of Tea, there is an anecdotal saying:

"The monks of the Chinese Ch'an sect of Buddhists believed that the first cup of Tea helped to keep a calm and clear mind while they sat in meditation. The second cup helped them feel as if the spirit was cleansed by the gentle Rain. After the third cup, one can understand the nature of things."  ...from the book Tea Bliss

I definitely needed to sit and reflect on the nature of things, after a full day in the classroom.  I am no longer able to take in as much as I once did... fibro fog and age, you know. And sometimes, I can feel quite addled trying to keep up with the enormous amount of information involved with the dying.

There is a volume of topics...and some of them bring up swirling feelings inside about my own beliefs and my own reactions to some of those topics. For instance, one day we were required to write down six favourite things and place them face down on the table. And then our instructor, without any knowledge of what was on them, came along and took three of those favourite things. The exercise was to teach us how loss affects us...unique for each individual.


In my case, she happened to take the three favourites which were the dearest in my life. And I reacted with such extreme anger to these losses. Wow.  I cannot begin to describe how inappropriately I reacted.


There was the clue I required that there was a great deal I had not looked at within myself. It was evidence...enough for me to know I had better find the root of that over-the-top flush of anger which had consumed me, during the exercise.


There were more than three cups of Tea drunk during quite a few deep meditations over the next few days to understand where the obscure pool of anger had its source. And of course, that wrath had its beginning when my daughter Katrina died.


It was not pleasant re-visiting the circumstances leading to her death.  I had written scores about it...enough for a book...in order to understand, just as I did when my mother died.  It is how I make sense of crazy-making events.


So.  I thought by writing about it I understood, as much as anyone can, and had let go  But you know what? As I peruse the emotional pages of my writing, I notice anger was rarely mentioned.


And I realized I had blocked that steamy rage into a muffled cocoon deep within my soul. As painful and fraught with anxiety as it is, it is time to let the stinking mass out...and away.  Because even though anger can be beneficial, in this case it was a mouldering mess which hindered me in so many ways.


Not the least of which is anger that can consume me over inconsequential things in inappropriate actions.  If there was ever misplaced anger, this was it.

I have learned over the years that meditation will clear my mind and allow me to go inward, towards my centre, where stillness and serenity reign and the sounds of the World are no more. There the answer would come, floating along in that translucent space...


And it did. I had forgotten...I had misplaced a memory crucial to that anger so recently found.


The anger had its roots in the tribunal I had to face when it became obvious that my daughter, if she was to live, would need transplants...primarily her liver, at that time. The member of the tribunal were made up of doctors and nurses, clergy and social workers. Their job was to determine if Katrina was a good prospect for a transplant.


They asked me to make decisions as to how my daughter would react...would she do all the things required to keep that transplanted organ healthy? What kind of person was she?  What did I think of her? The questions went on and on...


My daughter lay dying...I was already beyond thinking clearly. The only thing I could feel was incredible anger that they would ask a mother...me...about some fairly horrible scenarios they dredged up and ask me to make a decision about her character. If I gave the wrong answer...she might not get that transplant.

I remember being consumed with deep, abiding anger towards these people who were only doing their job. I had little, if any, control over the terrible outcome.


I have never felt so helpless. Just as helpless as I was when someone came along and took my three favourite things.

As I drink my tea, and as I breathe deeply, I write this with peaceful sorrow. Of course, Katrina had progressed too far and all her organs finally shut down, averting the whole transplant issue.


And as events so quickly progressed from the room where the tribunal sat in what I perceived as judgment, I just as quickly tried to forget it. In so doing, I easily buried the anger with which I had been consumed. I was afraid of that anger.  If I let it out, would I still be standing after the holocaust of emotions were let fly?


So.  Today I will brew a special cup of Tea.  I will use a pinch of each of Black, Green and Red Teas, along with a pinch of Chamomile, Mint, Dill and Willow Teas.  I will take the mixture to Grandfather Rock, who has sat waiting for this very event, waiting for me to recognize his benefit in my search for balance, clarity and finally, joy.


I will say a prayer as I sit with him, I will take a drink of the concoction, the mixture of which has special meanings for me, and I will offer the rest to him.


And then, I will finally accept that I am not all-powerful and that I can't always determine the outcome of events. And I will realize it was okay to feel anger at the time, it was okay to mourn deeply.  It is not okay to carry it for all time.


Anger such as this produces tense muscles, gritted teeth, embitterment, along with a host of other physical and emotional problems.


I have been told...when the student is ready, the teacher will come.  

I'd guess I was ready for Hospice and its teachings!

And Grandfather Rock...