When I am present, I am fully attentive to the person I am with. I am listening with my ears, my heart, and
my spirit.
When I have done everything I know to do for someone, I stop doing and
simply look at the person. I open my
spirit so I can know what else the person may need and to receive guidance for
what to say or do next. Sometimes it is
as simple as offering another drink of juice, or holding a hand. Once in a while an unexpected statement or
question springs to my lips. As
surprised as I am by what I’ve said, I am equally pleased with how heartfelt
the person’s response is.
Years ago, the question “What’s it like to die?” slipped out before I could stop myself. The man, who appeared to be suffering, said in a voice full of peace and wonder, “It’s so beautiful, all the colors and lights. If I’d known how beautiful dying is, I wouldn’t have been afraid. The colors are ones I’ve never seen before.”
It is most difficult for me to be present when I want to do, to fix, to
change things, yet when a person is dying, sometimes there is nothing left to
do, fix, or change.
One Christmas I entered a family home filled with the bustle and smells
of a holiday. When I went to the young
woman’s bedroom off of the kitchen, I knew she would be dead by day’s end. Rejoining her mother and sisters in the
kitchen, I told them, first with my tears, just how soon she would die. We cried together in one another’s arms in
the kitchen—mother, daughters, and nurse.
I was present.
Imagine being with family whose beloved grandmother has just died. The body has been washed and dressed. The mortuary is delayed by a storm and will
not come for two hours. There is little
more one can do, and feeling the anxiety of ‘wanting to do something’ adds to
the emotional chaos. What is needed is
presence. It is difficult, but it is not
impossible. I found myself in such a situation once, sitting in a corner
between the toaster and the potato chips, and said a prayer, “Show me what to
do.” After a few minutes I went to a
family member and asked about his relationship with the dead woman. He started to reminisce about his
sister. For the next two hours I quietly
moved between small groups, asked the simplest of questions, and then listened
with an open heart. I was present.
Sitting with a comatose patient is more difficult than it sounds. Immersing oneself in a book or a video game
keeps one from being fully present with the patient. Sitting in silent meditation is something few
of us can do. If I know the person’s
beliefs, I’ll say a prayer aloud. More
often, I read a thought provoking book, and imagine myself reading to the
patient. I look up frequently to “see”
their reaction. I imagine a conversation
of spirits. I “listen” for needs and
wipe a hot forehead or hold a cool hand as I am moved. It is the kind meditation that I can do, and
I leave the room with a greater sense of peace.
Each person’s presence is their own.
Mine is neither cute nor adorable.
It does not fit clichés. But it
is mine, and when I have given it fully, I am blessed with peace.
Mary Toren, RN, BSN
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