We are all ever-changing streams.
The man I thought I had come to know over the last two months was no longer there. Or was he? I'm wrestling with that question today and processing my experiences from last night.
As death comes closer for someone, they change.
But, is that change any different, really, than the changes we undergo on any given set of days?
I've been volunteering at a comfort care home for the last nine months. A comfort care home, as defined by Compassionandsupport.com, provides, at no cost to the resident and their families, "compassionate care for the dying and helps residents live their last days in comfort and love." The experience has been life-giving and life-changing for me. In these months, I've met amazing people and learned about their extraordinary lives, all alongside some of the most kind, compassionate, and caring people I have ever met.
Two months ago, a new resident came to the home, a gentleman in his 70s. Everyone who comes to a comfort care home has a prognosis that indicates they only have a few months of life before dying. This gentleman was no different. I was volunteering one of the first nights he was at the home, and we seemed to have an immediate connection. I sat with him while he told stories of his life and how the last few months had been challenging on his own. He shared about going to seminary school but leaving to put his faith into action through humanitarian efforts. I shared that I was a Buddhist exploring a deeper engagement with my spirituality.
Like every resident who comes to the home, the volunteers provide direct patient care, helping him with the bathroom, preparing small meals, and other general care. I spent much of my time in the evenings (when I typically volunteer) listening to his stories, sharing laughs, and at times crying together.
And, like every resident who comes, there comes a time when he began to transition toward dying. The end-of-life educator, Barbara Karnes, describes this process as the "11th hour." In her exceptional book, "Gone from my sight." she says, "The actual dying process often begins within the two weeks prior to death. There is a shift that occurs within a person that takes them from a mental processing of death to a true comprehension and belief in their own mortality."
When I arrived at my shift last night, I could immediately tell something was different. There wasn't the usual greeting, and there was a look of sincere wariness in his eyes. It had been less than a week since I'd seen him, and yet I was now standing beside a very different man. He was disoriented and, at times, responding to voices and images of people that I couldn't see. Did he recognize me? I don't know. Did he know where he was? I don't think so. Did he understand what was happening to him? At a deeper level, yes. He was rightfully unsettled.
Last night was one of the most challenging shifts I've had since I began volunteering. I had an outstanding partner volunteer, and the on-call nurse came to assist us when we struggled to get his breathing and pain under control. Karnes notes, "Death is as unique as the individual who is experiencing it." The man I had come to know was transitioning toward death in a way that unsettled me. Where had the man who enjoyed Jell-o and pudding packs gone? Where were the detailed stories and practical demeanor? The kindness and peacefulness? For him, the transition is going to be turbulent.
After coming home that night, sitting on the couch for an hour, distracting myself with videos on watercolor painting, I finally felt ready to sleep. I was visited in my dreams by the gentleman. He was angry with me for not providing better care, for not making it more manageable. I vividly recall him ripping the mala beads off my neck. Anxiety dreams like this point to the areas I'm most insecure.
This morning, I talked with my wife about the specific experiences and how I felt in response. I asked, "Is he already gone?" And she expertly reminded me, it's a transition, a process. Of course.
I opened up my journal and started to process the experience.
The sadness I felt is rooted in the illusion that I had "known" this person. I asked myself, "What does it mean to know someone?" I realize that by thinking that I knew him, or anyone for that matter, I am clinging to a fixed idea of what represents a particular individual. This gentleman was like ___X___. And I filled in the blank with some specific pieces of information or traits. But this doesn't seem right. We are not static. We are not fixed.
Volunteering at the comfort care home has been life-changing. I am not the same person I was last year. Even though I know we are constantly changing; I had gotten it into my mind that this gentleman was like __X__. End of story. And that any change from that "X" meant it was no longer him. Instead, what if we're like streams.
We stand before a stream watching the water flow by, watching the debris in the water flow along with it. All this flowing past, never static. The stream banks are slowly eroding here and pilling up down there. The ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus said that we never step in the same river twice. And yet, when we are in the presence of a stream, we "know" it as the stream.
Perhaps our Being is like this. I am like a stream, constantly changing, transforming. Sometimes in small, nearly invisible ways, other times dramatically. This gentleman is transitioning toward death. His stream is quite turbulent at the moment. But it's still him. The sadness comes when I try and understand the situation, to get control of it. When I try to stop the stream's flow. Instead of letting sadness be the only thing I feel, I will be open and let curiosity take hold.
I am a better caregiver when I can fully be there with him in the present moment. Maybe it means standing in the stream with him. Not trying to understand, not trying to fix anything. When he hears voices or sees others in the room, I will be open and curious. And above it all, kind. Each of us will be in this spot someday, uniquely experiencing our transition toward death. The next time I see this gentleman, I will be there without the fixation of knowing who he is or who I am. But only be curious and present in the experience as it unfolds. I will provide comfort care and be fully open to how he uniquely experiences this transition.