Right after I ended my
flirtation with Portland last summer (the inner voice finally gave a firm ‘no’)
I knew it was time to get off my ass and start volunteering.
But what to do? I felt I should leverage this journey
of mine somehow.
So what can I do now I
couldn’t do before?
Hmm…well, I’ve made peace
with death. Not many people have
that going for them.
I can be with people’s pain,
sit with suffering. As shown by
the people no longer in my life, most aren’t comfortable with that either.
(Once you accept and deal
with your own pain, it’s much easier to be at peace with someone else’s.)
Work with other bereaved
parents? No…too close to
home. And I’m not sure it’s my
calling (most bereaved parents have surviving children and/or a spouse—I’ve got
neither).
Hospice work? Hmm…
Hospice work with
children? Quick web search
followed by emotional breakdown made clear what an insane idea that is, at
least right now.
Hospice work with an Eastern
spiritual bent? Hmm.
Within a week or so I…
- Located a Zen Buddhist non-profit providing
contemplative care for hospice and hospital patients
- Emailed them
- Received response, met with program manager
- Applied to program, which includes 100 hours of
volunteer work (other stuff too…)
- Drove upstate for interview with two Zen priests
A few months later…
- Re-wrote their Mission Statement…priests loved,
posted to website
- Advised on marketing material, re-wrote
fundraising letters
- Attended 3-day silent retreat (no talking, plus
serious cushion time…it was lovely)
- Latest: Updating their brochure...
Sometimes when a door opens,
the draft pulls you to unexpected, exciting new places.
And the volunteer work? I couldn’t have done it before.
For three hours a week I
visit critical care patients in a major New York City hospital (not one of the
fancy ones, either).
My mission is simple, if
ambiguous—visit patients and be there for them.
Sometimes there are things to
fix—an extra blanket, getting the TV squared away, relaying a request to the
nurse.
Sometimes there are more
intimate, tangible things—gently comb an elderly woman’s hair so she feels more
pulled together; reassure another we don’t need a nurse, I can put her socks on
myself (warm feet are important).
And sometimes it’s the
intangible—letting a 92-year-old flirt with me a bit; listening as a woman
works through how she’s going to manage with congestive heart failure; engaging
philosophically with a heart patient who survived a near-death experience and
hasn’t seen life the same way ever since (I sure as hell relate to that).
It’s not easy. Some aren’t there mentally, others are
difficult to witness physically, most are emotionally vulnerable…all are sick,
some very.
I’m helping…but they’re also
helping me.
We all have our shit. Only by helping each other can we get
through it.
