I met “Jeffrey,” an African American Baptist man in his mid 60s, on the Skilled Nursing Facility floor one grey, San Francisco afternoon in January. Jeffrey had come to the hospital because of complications from diabetes. His blood sugar level had been rising and falling too quickly, the wound from his leg amputation below the knee was not healing well, and he had just gone completely blind in one eye.
At first, Jeffrey was very formal with me. He smiled and told me he was “doing just fine.” Feeling there was a discrepancy between “doing fine” and “being in the hospital with a degenerative illness that was causing blindness, reduced mobility and independence, and dietary restrictions,” I decided to joke around with him a little in the hopes that he would be able to relax and share his story.
I found my chance when Jeffrey balled up a kleenex and tossed it easily into a trash can across the room. I replied, “For not having sight in one eye, your depth perception is pretty darn good.” Jeffrey paused for a moment, the statement surprising him. Then, he began to laugh. It was one of those deep belly laughs, and he laughed so hard tears began sliding down his face, stating, “Yes, yes, I can still make a basket!”
We began to talk about his long battle with Type II Diabetes, and how it had really caused him to make a lot of changes in his life. When I asked him what he looked forward to, what his future entailed, he began to speak of his neighborhood.
Jeffrey lives in a predominantly African-American neighborhood in San Francisco. Having lived there his whole life, he remembers looking to the male elders in the neighborhood for help and guidance, saying: “I remember when I was a boy, and I looked up to all the old folks. Now, all the old folks are gone. It’s just me, now I’m the old folks!” Looking around himself now, he realized that he was one of the elders. He realized that diabetes was becoming rampant in his medically underserved neighborhood, and that it was his turn to step up as one of the wise leaders in his community. Jeffrey spoke of his neighbors, men in their 30s and 40s with young children at home, who were already dealing with diabetes and its effects. Jeffrey realized it was time to intervene.
Jeffrey was grieving for his lost eyesight, for his independence, for times when he did not have to check his blood sugar several times a day. However, by connecting his loss with the losses faced by his larger community, Jeffrey was finding a purpose and a calling. He was finding that he had wisdom to share, and that it was his turn to be a prophet. Jeffrey took the strength he found from his community, and turned it into a quest to help his community. This calling, this feeling that his work was not done in this world, made all the difference in the world.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Thankfulness, In Perspective
A man decided to die today. He is not, by many standards, a remarkable man. In his 60s, he looks to be in his 80s. He is rough and grizzled from being HIV positive and homeless in San Francisco. He is too weak to speak very clearly, or loudly, or for very long.
He is one of those high-maintenance patients. He is restless, anxious, unable to keep still. Even after the nurses gave him anti-anxiety medication, he kept trying to stand and walk, teetering with his low blood pressure. He was restless not just being in the hospital, but being in his own body as well.
We breathed deeply together. He rejected guided meditation, unable to let his guard down enough to close his eyes or relax. He was a spring, tightly wound and ready to snap if he let go of his vigilance.
Afraid to be alone, he asked me to sit with him for a while. We sat, and I would lean forward to catch his ragged voice wheeze out a few more words. A few times, we prayed. He hoped for courage, that he might overcome the obstacles he needed to overcome. We were vague on the shape of the obstacles, as he could be trying to overcome impediments to his health…or impediments to his death.
He asked me to help him write a letter to his family. It began, “I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.”
It hit me then, a chilly breeze down my spine, how much this man and I have in common. While we are from different places in the world, practice different religions, are different ages, know none of the same people, and will likely never see each other again, I also sat there, unsure of what the eternity of morning would bring. We are all, on some level, unsure. We are all just making guesses, believing our own end so distant that we needn’t think about it too early, or too clearly.
When the man decided to refuse the surgery, the medical staff was unsure of what to do next. Their job is to help others heal. While watching others deteriorate into death is also part of the job, it is not as popular amongst the medical staff.
He talked of chances he wished he’d taken. The opportunities seemed like nothing at the time. It is only with hindsight, when ongoing illness makes the possible becomes impossible, and the unthinkable the daily reality, that such thoughts have a tendency to linger.
I heard a speaker recently talk about forgiveness. He said something to the effect of, “When we can’t forgive, it is not that we have seen too much suffering, it is that we haven’t seen enough." While our hurts and vulnerabilities can feel endlessly distressing, they are often quite minor compared to the hurts and the vulnerabilities of the world. The speaker gave the example of driving in rush hour traffic—it becomes much less stressful and overwhelming when we realize that we’re lucky enough to have a car when millions of people don’t even have food. It is when we put our problems into context that a mountainous obstacle becomes nothing more than a small hill, and a small hill is much easier to climb.
In the moment the man decided to die, it occurred to me how most of my problems are, in comparison, minor inconveniences. So I need to pack up my house and move cross country—I’m horrible at organization and pre-planning in stressful situations, but by the end of September it will be over. So I have student debt from seminary—I’ll get a job and pay it off over time. So I have errands to run, or bills to pay, or phone calls to make. All of the little things on my mind, all the decisions I’ve had to make today, pale in comparison to this man’s decision to die.
“I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.” Life? Death? Sunshine or fog? A phone call from an old friend? A piece of friendly gossip, whispered behind a hand? In what will I be disappointed? In what will I find grace, and thankfulness? What will the morning bring?
He is one of those high-maintenance patients. He is restless, anxious, unable to keep still. Even after the nurses gave him anti-anxiety medication, he kept trying to stand and walk, teetering with his low blood pressure. He was restless not just being in the hospital, but being in his own body as well.
We breathed deeply together. He rejected guided meditation, unable to let his guard down enough to close his eyes or relax. He was a spring, tightly wound and ready to snap if he let go of his vigilance.
Afraid to be alone, he asked me to sit with him for a while. We sat, and I would lean forward to catch his ragged voice wheeze out a few more words. A few times, we prayed. He hoped for courage, that he might overcome the obstacles he needed to overcome. We were vague on the shape of the obstacles, as he could be trying to overcome impediments to his health…or impediments to his death.
He asked me to help him write a letter to his family. It began, “I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.”
It hit me then, a chilly breeze down my spine, how much this man and I have in common. While we are from different places in the world, practice different religions, are different ages, know none of the same people, and will likely never see each other again, I also sat there, unsure of what the eternity of morning would bring. We are all, on some level, unsure. We are all just making guesses, believing our own end so distant that we needn’t think about it too early, or too clearly.
When the man decided to refuse the surgery, the medical staff was unsure of what to do next. Their job is to help others heal. While watching others deteriorate into death is also part of the job, it is not as popular amongst the medical staff.
He talked of chances he wished he’d taken. The opportunities seemed like nothing at the time. It is only with hindsight, when ongoing illness makes the possible becomes impossible, and the unthinkable the daily reality, that such thoughts have a tendency to linger.
I heard a speaker recently talk about forgiveness. He said something to the effect of, “When we can’t forgive, it is not that we have seen too much suffering, it is that we haven’t seen enough." While our hurts and vulnerabilities can feel endlessly distressing, they are often quite minor compared to the hurts and the vulnerabilities of the world. The speaker gave the example of driving in rush hour traffic—it becomes much less stressful and overwhelming when we realize that we’re lucky enough to have a car when millions of people don’t even have food. It is when we put our problems into context that a mountainous obstacle becomes nothing more than a small hill, and a small hill is much easier to climb.
In the moment the man decided to die, it occurred to me how most of my problems are, in comparison, minor inconveniences. So I need to pack up my house and move cross country—I’m horrible at organization and pre-planning in stressful situations, but by the end of September it will be over. So I have student debt from seminary—I’ll get a job and pay it off over time. So I have errands to run, or bills to pay, or phone calls to make. All of the little things on my mind, all the decisions I’ve had to make today, pale in comparison to this man’s decision to die.
“I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.” Life? Death? Sunshine or fog? A phone call from an old friend? A piece of friendly gossip, whispered behind a hand? In what will I be disappointed? In what will I find grace, and thankfulness? What will the morning bring?
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