So, I felt compelled to read Ezra Taft Benson's Seminole work "Beware of Pride" on Monday for our FHE. It was kind of weird, because we had to translate from Seminole...oh, wait, I think I meant seminal work, in the sense that the reading thereof germinated in me a whole slew of study tangents, lines of thought, and so forth. Anyway, humor aside, we read the talk on Monday because I felt like that was what we needed at the time, and then at the end we made a goal to pray twice daily on a personal basis and once daily on a couple basis for that virtue, especially as pertaining to our relationship as spouses.
The reason I bring this up is because of a realization I had at the end, when I was saying why I thought it was such a great talk: when the Lord inspired Ezra Taft Benson to compose and deliver that address in 1989 he knew that I, personally, would read it more than a decade later and be changed by it. I am convinced that he had me (and, yes, others as well) specifically in mind and loved me enough to inspire a prophet to deliver those words. That is a cool thought, and it had never occurred to me before this last Monday.
As a postscript, I think the goal is working.
23 June 2008
02 June 2008
Death
Disclaimer: So...this entry is about death. Specifically, this entry deals with my experiences with death. I'm not sure if it will be comfortable for everyone to read, but I write this blog primarily for myself and I want to get these thoughts out sometime. So, here goes.
Josh and I found a couple baby birds on the ground once when we were kids, no more than ten or eleven years old. We took them home, made them a nest in a Tupperware container, and tried to nurse them back to health. One died fairly soon, as I recall. We fed them about the opposite of what baby birds really need; instead of digested protein, mashed-up worms and things, I think we fed them white rice dissolved in water. I kick myself about it now, but that was the best we knew. We took one of the birds to Wolf Creek Condominiums with us and it died while we were there. I was heartbroken; it seemed unfair that something so small and helpless should need to die so young. I was inconsolable. We buried the bird next to the parking lot, and if we ever returned to Wolf Creek after that I don't remember it.
The first person in my life that I lost to death was my great-grandmother, Bertha Wyler Roberts. I had seen her only infrequently; she was the oldest person I personally knew. She lived in Idaho, a world away, and I saw her a few times a year. She would make me toast and we kids would play with the decorations in her house. As she grew older and more infirm, she entered a nursing home and I drew her pictures to put on her wall. It didn't really make any sort of real impact when I learned she had died. I was twelve. At her viewing, she looked different in the way bodies do: too much makeup, hands crossed over her chest in a way I had never seen her in life. My Aunt Nancy told her life sketch at the funeral, and my emotions flooded up only as she mentioned my great-grandmother's toast. It hit me that I would never have that toast again and I cried then for the first time since she had passed away. I still have her toaster; it is from an era when appliances were made to last and has only recently stopped working well as we have jammed too many bagels into its too-small slots. I did not know GG Roberts well enough to really miss her now; she is just somewhere far away, just as she always was growing up, and I'll see her again sometime.
When my son died he took a piece of me with him. His sickness and death were life-changing in a way only those who have experienced the loss of a child can understand. I won't comment more on Caleb here, not because I don't think it important or relevant but because it belongs in an entirely different category in my mind. Caleb is the reason why I am a nurse now, and without him I would not have much to write about in this blog entry.
I became a CNA in the summer of 2005 and took my first job at a local assisted living center later that year. As I have gained experience in the health care field, many people that I have personally known have passed away. Most of the time I have noted their passing with a sense neither of melancholy nor of grief; they simply left between one shift and the next. I had not yet taken care of anyone who had been actively dying at the time, and someone new always moved in to take the place of the recently departed. However, one death at Apple Village stands out in my mind for a couple reasons. One is that it was the mother of someone in my parents' ward. Another is that I had taken care of her many times. As her death approached she stopped getting out of bed, then she stopped waking up and lay in bed breathing through her mouth, small gurgling sounds occasionally escaping through her lips. Her daughter, a woman of whom I was fond , visited her often and I had the opportunity to be her aide several times as her death approached just after the New Year. I remember one evening at work when I was in the room with her daughter, offering what support I could. Her daughter left, and I had the impulse to lean in close and talk to her. We follow the same religion, her and I, so I didn't feel it too great an imposition on her to speak of spiritual matters. I asked her if she knew who I was and felt that she did. I told her that it had been a great privilege to have known her and cared for her. I told her I thought she was a great lady and that if she decided it was time to go meet her husband, she should go; her family would be all right. I thought she smiled just a bit, and the next time I went to work she was gone.
At that same facility my favorite resident was a woman who had been left weak and unable to speak from a stroke. She had lost most of the use of half her body. She tried very hard to be independent, which I could appreciate but which caused some others frustration. Once when I responded after she had fallen trying to take herself to her chair, we had a talk (so to speak) about how frustrating it must be for her to have to depend on others for so much, how humiliating to have someone else pick you up off the floor. She nodded and we looked into each other's eyes and she knew I didn't look down on her for her position, and I knew she appreciated my understanding. We talked about how great it will be when we can meet after this life and have a good conversation.
Most of my patient deaths occurred the shift after I left, a fact that occasionally provokes amused comments from those I tell. I have regretted that fact, not because I have any particular fascination with death in and of itself but because helping someone pass on is such a great privilege. The last moments of a person's life can occur in any number of ways, and as a health care worker I consider it my responsibility to make those moments as comfortable as possible for the patient as well as for his or her family members. There is something almost sacred to the process, and there is a special feeling in the room as the end nears, a palpable sort of silence which invites reverent tones. Just one of the deaths I have personally witnessed has been otherwise, and the business of CPR and IV access and AEDs seems to me a rude sort of invasion when a person is in a state where death comes as a welcome friend.
I took care of a woman at Avalon Care Center for over eight months. I was her nurse almost every day I worked, and I got to know her and care for her in the special way that only service can bring. I was very fond of her. She was full of fiery spirit even as her body refused to let her move normally, and she swore a lot and made me smile. She always remembered me, even if she called me Gordon or Justin most of the time. After I left Avalon and moved to South Davis Community Hospital, I gradually forgot about her. I was scheduled on the first floor one day (which had become a rare occurrence by that time) and a new patient had just been admitted who was on hospice and not expected to live long. It was her, and it didn't seem like coincidence that I was her nurse. Her family was glad when I told them about our history, and I was happy that she would not be in the care of a stranger at the end. I did my best to make her comfortable. This may sound a bit macabre to some of you out there, but I took a moment and prayed that, if it were the Lord's will, I could be the nurse taking care of her when she passed on. I wanted it for her and for me, because I couldn't stand the thought of someone else taking care of her when she died, someone who would know her as just another hospice patient passing away. She died while I was on my lunch break, which I thought was amusing given her sense of humor, and I helped prepare her body for the mortuary.
One of our residents played a last joke on his family when he died; he was a stubborn old man with a strong will and was in the hospital after losing a fight with a train that had been built over his ranch land. His body was shutting down, and the family came to the difficult decision to remove him from the mechanical ventilator which was helping him breathe. The family was all gathered in the room, and one of my coworkers who knew him well injected morphine and lorazepam into his IV as the respiratory therapist turned the ventilator off. After two minutes, his color paled and the nurse listened to his heart and lungs, turned to the family and slowly shook his head. The mood was somber but relieved. We left the room to give the family time alone, and a few minutes later his daughter came to tell us that he had started breathing again, his heart rate was up and his oxygen saturation was in the 80's. When we entered the room the whole family was laughing about their father's last practical joke. Two hours later, he left.
Both my grandfathers have passed away, one from complications of Parkinson's and one from complications of being old. In both cases I saw men I had known and loved change into frail and quiet men, very unlike those I had known as a child. Watching my parents and grandparents struggle with the trials of age and disease and caring has been at once cause for reflection and cause for worry. The question of what old age will bring to each of us is one to which we never know the answer until that time comes, although we may catch glimpses of it. I have thought about what I would need to do to cope with the death of a parent or my wife, and I have not come up with any good answers. I have filled out an advance directives form (and encourage everyone else to do the same: I work with too many people who have no quality of life and no way out) for myself, but beyond that I do what I suppose most other people do: ignore my own mortality and hope for something quick and relatively painless, at a point when my passing will not be a financial burden on my family. My perspective is perhaps a bit different than some others' would be, because I know that if I or my wife dies there will be someone waiting for us. There would be sweetness with the bitterness of parting because one of us at least would be reunited with Caleb. I'm sure that thought would console me or her if one of us were to be taken early.
So, I have dwelled on the topic of death perhaps longer than is seemly, but I have had cause to think about the topic lately. How wonderful it is that death and Hell have been overcome, that all of us will be separated only for a time from our physical selves. How amazing it is that this gift of resurrection and reuniting is ours for free, just for coming to earth and its attendant sufferings and sorrows. How wonderful it is to think of the joy of meeting once again our dear departed friends.
Josh and I found a couple baby birds on the ground once when we were kids, no more than ten or eleven years old. We took them home, made them a nest in a Tupperware container, and tried to nurse them back to health. One died fairly soon, as I recall. We fed them about the opposite of what baby birds really need; instead of digested protein, mashed-up worms and things, I think we fed them white rice dissolved in water. I kick myself about it now, but that was the best we knew. We took one of the birds to Wolf Creek Condominiums with us and it died while we were there. I was heartbroken; it seemed unfair that something so small and helpless should need to die so young. I was inconsolable. We buried the bird next to the parking lot, and if we ever returned to Wolf Creek after that I don't remember it.
The first person in my life that I lost to death was my great-grandmother, Bertha Wyler Roberts. I had seen her only infrequently; she was the oldest person I personally knew. She lived in Idaho, a world away, and I saw her a few times a year. She would make me toast and we kids would play with the decorations in her house. As she grew older and more infirm, she entered a nursing home and I drew her pictures to put on her wall. It didn't really make any sort of real impact when I learned she had died. I was twelve. At her viewing, she looked different in the way bodies do: too much makeup, hands crossed over her chest in a way I had never seen her in life. My Aunt Nancy told her life sketch at the funeral, and my emotions flooded up only as she mentioned my great-grandmother's toast. It hit me that I would never have that toast again and I cried then for the first time since she had passed away. I still have her toaster; it is from an era when appliances were made to last and has only recently stopped working well as we have jammed too many bagels into its too-small slots. I did not know GG Roberts well enough to really miss her now; she is just somewhere far away, just as she always was growing up, and I'll see her again sometime.
When my son died he took a piece of me with him. His sickness and death were life-changing in a way only those who have experienced the loss of a child can understand. I won't comment more on Caleb here, not because I don't think it important or relevant but because it belongs in an entirely different category in my mind. Caleb is the reason why I am a nurse now, and without him I would not have much to write about in this blog entry.
I became a CNA in the summer of 2005 and took my first job at a local assisted living center later that year. As I have gained experience in the health care field, many people that I have personally known have passed away. Most of the time I have noted their passing with a sense neither of melancholy nor of grief; they simply left between one shift and the next. I had not yet taken care of anyone who had been actively dying at the time, and someone new always moved in to take the place of the recently departed. However, one death at Apple Village stands out in my mind for a couple reasons. One is that it was the mother of someone in my parents' ward. Another is that I had taken care of her many times. As her death approached she stopped getting out of bed, then she stopped waking up and lay in bed breathing through her mouth, small gurgling sounds occasionally escaping through her lips. Her daughter, a woman of whom I was fond , visited her often and I had the opportunity to be her aide several times as her death approached just after the New Year. I remember one evening at work when I was in the room with her daughter, offering what support I could. Her daughter left, and I had the impulse to lean in close and talk to her. We follow the same religion, her and I, so I didn't feel it too great an imposition on her to speak of spiritual matters. I asked her if she knew who I was and felt that she did. I told her that it had been a great privilege to have known her and cared for her. I told her I thought she was a great lady and that if she decided it was time to go meet her husband, she should go; her family would be all right. I thought she smiled just a bit, and the next time I went to work she was gone.
At that same facility my favorite resident was a woman who had been left weak and unable to speak from a stroke. She had lost most of the use of half her body. She tried very hard to be independent, which I could appreciate but which caused some others frustration. Once when I responded after she had fallen trying to take herself to her chair, we had a talk (so to speak) about how frustrating it must be for her to have to depend on others for so much, how humiliating to have someone else pick you up off the floor. She nodded and we looked into each other's eyes and she knew I didn't look down on her for her position, and I knew she appreciated my understanding. We talked about how great it will be when we can meet after this life and have a good conversation.
Most of my patient deaths occurred the shift after I left, a fact that occasionally provokes amused comments from those I tell. I have regretted that fact, not because I have any particular fascination with death in and of itself but because helping someone pass on is such a great privilege. The last moments of a person's life can occur in any number of ways, and as a health care worker I consider it my responsibility to make those moments as comfortable as possible for the patient as well as for his or her family members. There is something almost sacred to the process, and there is a special feeling in the room as the end nears, a palpable sort of silence which invites reverent tones. Just one of the deaths I have personally witnessed has been otherwise, and the business of CPR and IV access and AEDs seems to me a rude sort of invasion when a person is in a state where death comes as a welcome friend.
I took care of a woman at Avalon Care Center for over eight months. I was her nurse almost every day I worked, and I got to know her and care for her in the special way that only service can bring. I was very fond of her. She was full of fiery spirit even as her body refused to let her move normally, and she swore a lot and made me smile. She always remembered me, even if she called me Gordon or Justin most of the time. After I left Avalon and moved to South Davis Community Hospital, I gradually forgot about her. I was scheduled on the first floor one day (which had become a rare occurrence by that time) and a new patient had just been admitted who was on hospice and not expected to live long. It was her, and it didn't seem like coincidence that I was her nurse. Her family was glad when I told them about our history, and I was happy that she would not be in the care of a stranger at the end. I did my best to make her comfortable. This may sound a bit macabre to some of you out there, but I took a moment and prayed that, if it were the Lord's will, I could be the nurse taking care of her when she passed on. I wanted it for her and for me, because I couldn't stand the thought of someone else taking care of her when she died, someone who would know her as just another hospice patient passing away. She died while I was on my lunch break, which I thought was amusing given her sense of humor, and I helped prepare her body for the mortuary.
One of our residents played a last joke on his family when he died; he was a stubborn old man with a strong will and was in the hospital after losing a fight with a train that had been built over his ranch land. His body was shutting down, and the family came to the difficult decision to remove him from the mechanical ventilator which was helping him breathe. The family was all gathered in the room, and one of my coworkers who knew him well injected morphine and lorazepam into his IV as the respiratory therapist turned the ventilator off. After two minutes, his color paled and the nurse listened to his heart and lungs, turned to the family and slowly shook his head. The mood was somber but relieved. We left the room to give the family time alone, and a few minutes later his daughter came to tell us that he had started breathing again, his heart rate was up and his oxygen saturation was in the 80's. When we entered the room the whole family was laughing about their father's last practical joke. Two hours later, he left.
Both my grandfathers have passed away, one from complications of Parkinson's and one from complications of being old. In both cases I saw men I had known and loved change into frail and quiet men, very unlike those I had known as a child. Watching my parents and grandparents struggle with the trials of age and disease and caring has been at once cause for reflection and cause for worry. The question of what old age will bring to each of us is one to which we never know the answer until that time comes, although we may catch glimpses of it. I have thought about what I would need to do to cope with the death of a parent or my wife, and I have not come up with any good answers. I have filled out an advance directives form (and encourage everyone else to do the same: I work with too many people who have no quality of life and no way out) for myself, but beyond that I do what I suppose most other people do: ignore my own mortality and hope for something quick and relatively painless, at a point when my passing will not be a financial burden on my family. My perspective is perhaps a bit different than some others' would be, because I know that if I or my wife dies there will be someone waiting for us. There would be sweetness with the bitterness of parting because one of us at least would be reunited with Caleb. I'm sure that thought would console me or her if one of us were to be taken early.
So, I have dwelled on the topic of death perhaps longer than is seemly, but I have had cause to think about the topic lately. How wonderful it is that death and Hell have been overcome, that all of us will be separated only for a time from our physical selves. How amazing it is that this gift of resurrection and reuniting is ours for free, just for coming to earth and its attendant sufferings and sorrows. How wonderful it is to think of the joy of meeting once again our dear departed friends.
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