Even the Dying

I was a Hospice chaplain for a year and a half before moving to a new town because of my husband's job. I'm taking this year off to write and settle in to the new place.

I learned a lot in my time as a Hospice chaplain. I loved the job even though some days I didn't want to do it. I drove 50-100 miles a day traveling from one patient's home to another. Each patient had something to teach me, some gift for me that I didn't know I needed. Some of those gifts were painful to receive. I'm going to share about some of them in this blog. Of my female patients, several had a history of abuse, and that statistic spanned race, class, and age.

One patient had been abused her whole life, most recently by her then deceased husband. It took many visits before she admitted to the trauma, and only a small part of it. Many visits before she confessed her fear that she might see him in heaven (or hell, as her abuser made sure that she wasn't sure she deserved to go to heaven). 

The time came when she was actively dying. This is a phrase we use in the hospice world for someone who has reached a physical stage at which death is imminent. There are physical signs. The breathing changes, the body temperature spikes, the skin changes, the eyes stare. There are spiritual signs too. Sometimes people reach out with their hands to embrace someone we do not see. Sometimes people ask for people to say goodbye. Many times a patient is silent because they have physically deteriorated to the point where speech is difficult or impossible.

This patient was speaking, a lot.

My job as a chaplain was to be with the patients and their loved ones (if they had any) throughout their journey towards death. The most spiritually exhausting and beautiful work was nearly always done in these final hours. There was often someone that needed to come home and be seen. Sometimes a patient needed to be held. Sometimes a patient needed forgiveness. Sometimes a patient needed to forgive. When I say need, I mean it. Patients would linger on in this actively dying stage far beyond what medicine and logic could say was possible. Weeks could go by with no food and barely any fluids- but if there was something the patient needed, they could hang on. The human spirit is a powerful thing. When someone held on for a long time in this stage, it was actually upsetting, the hospice team would frantically search for what it was that the patient needed but hadn't gotten yet. 

My patient, with whom I had become closely connected to, was actively dying. She was muttering. Many words came out, but the most distinctive was her chorus of "No, no, no." Her eyes were alight with fear. Something in me understood that she was afraid of leaving her safe world (she was given great care by a kind family member). She was afraid that in death, she might meet her abusers. That somehow if she closed her eyes to this space, she might find that which she feared in the next.

She wasn't sure she deserved peace, happiness, or love. What if death gave her the thing that she had been told she deserved?

Her abuse affected even her dying. She couldn't relax and let go. She couldn't let her guard down and release her spirit. I was so angry on her behalf. So angry that she couldn't rest in peace. Her abusers had stolen even a peaceful death.

As she moaned "no, no, no" out of fear (her pain was managed), I spoke softly in her ear, over and over again: 

"You are safe. You are loved. It's OK to let go. 

You are safe. You are loved. It's OK. 

You are safe. You are loved. You can let go."

She died the next day. When I found out, I whispered a prayer of thanks to God that she was safe, that she would feel fully Loved, and that it finally became OK for her to go.

When people speak of abuse, it is not a distant memory or a forgotten fight. Many times it is a scar so deep, that even the dying are more scared of "him" than they are of death. Abuse is not a joke or something to be flippant about.

To my friends who have been abused, I can say this: You are loved. I am a safe place.