Not Treatable, Not Curable

January 24, 2012 By 18 Comments

It’s a blow, isn’t it. To hear those words after watching him fight. To know he won’t be around much longer.

You’ve never done this before, taken care of someone who is dying. Lots of feelings flying around. And fears. And love. All rolled together.

This time, these moments with him are what you’ve got. It’s O.K. to be scared. O.K to be mad or sad or whatever you are. There’s no need to fight the feelings. You can feel them all and still be present. This journey can be, if you allow it, one of the most meaningful experiences of your life. Here are a few things I know for sure:

(1) He will choose the time. It’s a soul thing, not a dad thing. When his soul is ready, he will go. No doctor, nurse, or anyone else in the world will be able to tell you with certainty when that is.

(2) There will be a time when he can’t get out of bed. Ask him – Dad, where would you like the bed to be when you can’t get up anymore? Home? In the family room? In your bedroom? Inpatient hospice? So often people will tuck their person away in the back of the house. Ask him and don’t be surprised if he doesn’t answer right away. When the time is right, he will.

(3) If you can, tell him he can go whenever he’s ready. There is a permission giving that can be really important. You won’t be hastening anything with permission but releasing him/ego from guilt/sadness of leaving the ones he loves.

(4) Don’t be scared of pain medicine and please encourage him not be. He won’t get addicted. I cannot emphasize that enough. The pain can be rather intense and there are ample medications in this day and time. If he’s hurting, they can do something about it. If he’s not on hospice, please consider it. I can sum up hospice with one word: Godsend.

(6) There will be spirits/people to meet him and help him cross. He may begin to talk with them/watch them before he goes. You will see his eyes focus on the ceiling or near windows. You may catch him laughing or smiling. He may talk about needing his shoes or a map – metaphors for releasing himself from his body. Just go with it. If he talks about needing his shoes, tell him they’re right there by the bed. If he talks about the map or a trip, go with it. Where are you going dad? What do you need?

(7) Hallucinations are scary – bugs on the wall, faces contorting, a  truck driving through the house. Not everyone has them but many do. They can be frightening AND medicine can be given to quell them. Just ask. You’ll know.

(8) Visions are not scary. I believe everyone has visions, though not all speak of them. If your dad is having visions, he won’t be frighted by the experience. He may talk about people in the room only he can see, music only he can hear, angels, relatives that have been gone a long time. He may ask for a window to be opened or closed to let people in and out. You may see him reaching up toward something. He may complain about the noise of all the people standing around talking. In the early 1990s, a young boy was dying from AIDS in an inpatient hospice. One morning he complained to his nurse about the loud boys playing in the corner of the room. The nurse asked who was there. “John, Gabe, and Marcus.” Turns out  John, Gabe, and Marcus had all died in the same hospice a few months prior to this boy’s arrival.  There’s no way he could’ve known them. But he did. Please don’t discount the visions.

(9) There is often a period of distinct restlessness where your dad may be super agitated, can’t wear clothes, doesn’t want covers on him. This can last a a few days and  may be uncomfortable to watch. It’s as though the person is working to free themselves from their body. Again, medication is good but the other thing to remember is this; you can’t know what he’s experiencing. That restlessness is the human side while at the same time, a whole spiritual thing is happening – i.e., part of him is out of his body trying to make sense of what’s happening and NOT hurting. If you talk to folks who’ve had near death experiences, they’ll tell you the same.

(10) There is usually distinct calm after the restlessness. This is where you may see the smiling, watching the ceiling, and deep peace. This is also when there will be mostly sleeping – like he’s trying out the other side to see if it’ll be OK. He will go and come back into his body over and over. You’ll start to see it.

(11) There may be a moment, few hours, maybe even a whole day where he seemingly has a miraculous awakening – clear thinking, chatty, or wants to eat after not eating for a long time. You’ve heard of people who open their eyes and say I love you and then go? That’s this phenomenon. It’s like they come back just for moment in time to connect before they leave this plane.

(12) Ask if he wants to talk about his funeral or any special requests. You may be surprised at the conversation!!! My mother made a declaration one morning that she was never, ever going to wear a bra again. We turned that into a reason for a party, complete with a harpist and root beer floats for 15 people. Equal parts funny, poignant, sad, and not to be missed.

(13) It’s not all doom,  gloom, and sadness. Dark/death humor can make all of you laugh so hard you pee your pants. Mom instigated the writing of a message to her favorite bath giver. In marker. Across both butt cheeks. Still makes me laugh.

(14) You can do this. You can. There is no perfect way. There is only the way you and your dad and the rest of your family can manage. That will be perfect enough.

(15) Drink water…silly I know in the context of the rest of this but you, ‘o wonderful caregiver, can get dehydrated in this process of caring so deeply.

(16) Here’s a great book: Final Gifts by Callanan and Kelly (1992). These two authors are ninja goddess end-of-life nurses. Their stories are illuminating, insightful, and will give you more guidance.

(17) Do your best to let go of outcomes – how you think people should act, what you think they should do, or how they should be. Each person in your circle will have their own experience. You’re in charge of yours. Your dad is in charge of his.

This is a lot of information. I’m sharing so much now because I want you to be able to fully engage if you want to.

This isn’t a passive experience you and your Dad are having. It’s active. You can talk to him about this stuff. You can ask him to tell you if he see’s anyone. You can listen for metaphors. When the time comes, you can connect wordlessly by massaging his arms/hand/legs/feet with lotion if he can tolerate it. Tell him you’re scared. Tell him you’re going to miss him. Tell him you love him. If you can’t tell him and you want to, write him a letter and ask someone to read it to him. Even if he’s not coherent, some part of him can hear.

This journey, being with someone who is dying, someone you love very much, is one of the toughest things you’ll do. I promise you though, it can also be one of the most rewarding, awe inspiring, and meaningful gifts of your life.

Thinking of you today and sending love, light, and peace -

Filed Under: Blog, Grief & Loss Tagged With: , , , ,

Openhearted and Brave

January 11, 2012 By 1 Comment

 

 

 

You, intrepid helper human being, have a light to shine in the world.

To do your work, to give like you do requires muchness. And love. And heart. And sometimes more fortitude than you think you can muster like when your mama has cancer, or your aged parents need you, or your teen tells you he’s gay, or your children are asking what it will be like when grandpa dies, or your spouse leaves, or you’ve had an awakening, or you’ve got a secret to share that in the telling will help you and more people than you’ll ever know.

When these life events happen, the ways in which you do your work, interact with your clients, the ways you move and breathe and dance all change.

You cannot not pay attention. And I promise, you want to pay attention because these are some of the richest opportunities for love and growth and meaningful living you can know. 

I’ve been reclusive since 2005 – after doing death and dying work for 15 years, after the death of my mama. I was spent. Weary. The crispiest one can be without leaping over the cliff of burnout.

I’ve spent the last seven years resting, integrating, releasing the pain of those I carried with me that wasn’t my own. Awakening.

I’ve figured out a few things.

1. Not one ounce of time has been wasted. 

2. I’ve done exactly what I’ve needed to do to take care of my heart and soul.

3. No one has stopped loving me because of my hidden-ness and even if they did that would be ok.

4. I needed to be quiet and still so I could hear/heal.

5. Just like Anne Lamott says, God is real but different then the one I learned about in church. 

If you’re still reading, I’ll surmise you are a healer, a keeper of the light – that person others are drawn towards, the one who can hold onto hope for folks until they can find and hold it themselves. You’re that person.

Me, too.

I forgot how much I like being her, how much I’m filled, how magical and mystical the connections can be. I needed to rest and remember.

We are spiritual beings, you and I.

We are living in the world to learn, grow, and love. In the doing of our great work/calling, in the being of ourselves and only ourselves, we get to help each other.

Get to. I love that. You and I. We get to do that. We get to wake up in the morning and help people. Quite a gift, no?

We can do this work though, only when we care for ourselves. We have to acknowledge when we need to bailout for awhile or ramp up, release or embrace.

We can do this when we pay attention to what we need. When we pay attention to our bodies and souls and minds and thoughts.

If you’re struggling, aching for rest, running your business and caring for sick parents, running your business and grieving, I want you to know the crazy won’t last forever. The weariness in your bones, the tears that leak on your face in the middle of the day – it will all change and move around and you’ll figure it out. You will.

Lean into it all -  even those moments you think are going to kill you. They won’t. Lean in with as much openheartedness as you can. You, the people you love, and the clients you serve in the world will be richer for it.

If you are a wounded healer in need of inspiration, tools, or a little hope, click on over to my new Facebook page, OpenHeartedandBrave and hit the ‘like’ button, will you? Then watch for the bright orange box on your newsfeed.

It’s still a little quiet over there. The community is building and soon there will be a congregation to support. I invite you to join the conversations with all of your openhearted and brave self. 

Until next time, keep on keepin’ on all you shiny people. The world needs you.

PS: I’m facilitating a 4 week Pictures of Grief class starting in February. Class size is limited to 15 women who’ve experienced a death of a loved one in the last year. You can use a fancy camera or your phone. You’ll be capturing photos around different themes we’ll talk about in class, then writing as little or as much as you’d like. We’ll figure out how to put a book together of all the goodness created. Cost is $99. More information next week. If you’re interested, shoot me an email and get on the list! martha@marthaatkins.com

PSS: Photo Credit: Martha J. Atkins, Alaska

Filed Under: Blog, Change, Grief & Loss

What’s Your Story

June 3, 2011 By 9 Comments

She’s standing in front of you now.

Spit flying. Pissed Off. Red faced. She berates your every move. Hates your brilliant ideas. Won’t let you forget the times you messed up. Won’t shut up about how you’ll never be as good as anyone else.

What do you do?

Turn and run? Yell back? Give her the finger and punch her in the head? Sink into a black spiral of nasty ass depression? Agree with all of it?

Random human walks up. Looks at you. Looks at her. Tells you she’s not real.

You know she’s real. You’ve stuffed her with food and pills and drama to make her shut the hell up. She has to be real.

Random human says, no really. Look. It’s all a story you made up. In fact a bunch of stories. They kept you safe. Now they’re just annoying.

A story? A stupid story? WTF? I KNOW this is real. It’s my life. It’s real. This is REAL.

Random human asks what could happen, if just for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe a new story? One where you are happy and content. One where meaning and magic and wonder all flow together. One where your life, your everyday existence on the planet, becomes a gift.

What transformation could happen if you dared believe all that?

Random human invites you to share a comment and tell us.

Imagine. The. Possibilities.

 

 

 

Filed Under: Blog, Mind, Transitions

Dorothy and Her Angels

April 2, 2010 By 2 Comments

The last time my mother was able to be in her own bed, we spent the entire day there together. We had rootbeer floats. She let the dog get on the bed. I took pictures. She dictated some letters for me to send on her behalf and asked me to call people she hadn’t talked to in forty years ‘to thank them for loving me’.

She wanted to tell these people goodbye but couldn’t do it herself so I got to be her voice that day. Painful and magical at the same time. I learned a powerful lesson about connections - some of them we never really lose despite time and distance.

After awhile she said, “Martha Jo, if there gets to be a time where I am mean to you or don’t recognize you, remember that isn’t me”. She knew the tumors in her head could rob her of memories, take the names and faces of her children from her before it was time for her body to be still. I kissed her on the forehead and said I knew she loved me and I wouldn’t forget. And I haven’t.

As her disease progressed, I asked her to tell me if she saw anyone. “What do you mean?”

“Well, sometimes people see family members or angels or I don’t know what.  They’ll be around when it gets to be time for you to go. If you see anyone will you tell me?” She laughed and said, “Depends on who it is.” I’m not sure if she had some lurid past I didn’t know about but she sure said that with glee in her eyes.

A few days later I sat by her bed and watched as she came in and out of space and time with me and space and time from some other place. She hadn’t talked in a day or two. Her eyes were closed but I noticed she was smiling, her face as calm and gentle as it could be.

‘Mom, what do you see?” She began to whisper the names of relatives who had been gone a long, long time – “Daddy Charlie and Grandmother.” I began to smile and tear up at the same time. She was seeing her grandparents. Who else? “Gam and Pop” – her parents.  Aunt Lala and Uncle Claude – her favorite aunt and uncle. Where are they Mom? “They’re coming up the road from the farmhouse.” I’d heard stories about that farmhouse my whole life.

Then she was quiet. I was perplexed. My big brother was supposed to be there, too. Jim had died 13 years before and in a dream I’d seen him, sitting in a chair in the living room near Mom’s bed, legs crossed, completely engrossed in a good book. He wasn’t in a hurry – didn’t need to be anywhere else in the world except right there. He was waiting for her.

“Mom…where’s Jim?” She kept smiling and I leaned in close so I could hear. ”Oh…he’s been here awhile.”

The night she died, Mom was reaching and reaching toward the sky – I suspect to all those people she had seen and many more. I believe they were reaching for her, too.

There’s a sentence at the beginning of this piece.

“I learned a powerful lesson about connections - some of them we never really lose despite time and distance.”

I get that now in a way I didn’t before – and it gives me hope.

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Filed Under: Grief & Loss, Woo Woo