Last visits. Goodbyes.

Last visits, last times to see a person, last looks at something, to someone are interesting. And hard. I experience this a lot with the population I work with. Sometimes I don't know it is the last time. I think I might prefer it that way. Then again. I don't know. Is it easier to say goodbye to a person now before they are gone or later once they are gone? Is it easier to say goodbye to a place that you have fond memories of, knowing you will make more fond memories in the next place?

Goodbyes. They can be either temporary or permanent. The temporary ones are always better. The permanent ones are inevitable.

This post is disjointed. Maybe because my brain is disjointed. Along with my emotions. You see, I made a last visit today. Said goodbye today. It was harder than I expected. Maybe because it was unexpected in the way it happened. As some of you know, and some of you don't, I am a Hospice volunteer. It is a semi-recent thing. I completed my training in June and got my first "assignment" in early August. She was a hard nut for me to crack. We eventually found our groove. She loved having her back massaged. I'd love to have someone massage my shoulders, arms, and back for 45 minutes to an hour once a week. Sounds like heaven. That is what I did for her. Faithfully, once a week. Even with little response from her. Even with little interaction. And only one time (in four months of visits) any indication that she remembered who I was. That didn't seem to matter. She glowed when I was there. It didn't matter that I had to be let in AND out of her building. It just didn't matter. I was making a difference in her life, if only for that hour, once a week.

Late Friday I got a call from one of the Volunteer Coordinators that my first patient was being discharged from services. She had improved enough that she no longer qualifies at this moment in time for Hospice. It was optional to make a last visit.

I made my last visit today. My usual Saturday visit. After the phone call yesterday I couldn't help but feel sorrow. Sadness knowing I had grown accustomed to seeing this lovely, little lady that only has a world as large as her room, her wheelchair, the locked facility that she lives in. That her world has been diminished and will be further diminished, day-by-day, hour-by-hour. Even though the last visit was optional, I couldn't not go and say goodbye. She was in her bed and very agitated. Delusional. She was upset and not consolable. Not redirectable. It broke my heart. Especially as I explained that this was the last time I would come. She looked at me blankly and then started to talk about the rats, wanting to go home. I wanted to go home. I was having a hard time with this. When I had signed up to be a Hospice volunteer it was knowing full well that I would be saying goodbye to my patients. But I hadn't expected to say goodbye to them in person. While they are still alive. And if that is the case, I was wishing that it would have been on a good note. On a note that we'd had our visit last week when she was smiling and happy. I stepped back for a moment and reminded myself that I needed to meet her where she was at. I reapproached her and told her that I was so glad that I had been able to come visit and that I would think of her often. I thanked her. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and said goodbye. She calmed then and said goodbye, probably not (but maybe) understanding the scope of the goodbye.

On my way home I reflected on my thankfullness that I was able to interact with this person. I was able to make a difference in her life and that she made a difference in mine. For this, I am grateful and appreciative. And, I said my final goodbye.