Tucked In

Last week for hospice, I volunteered to do the "tuck-in calls," phoning up a list of patients to see if they had everything they needed before the weekend. Some patients had wives or husbands, sons or daughters to answer the phone for them; others answered themselves, silence reverberating in the background. Some people I spoke to were warm and thankful for the call; others were abrupt and eager to get off the phone. After each conversation, I felt myself becoming more and more lost in thought. I couldn't help but wonder, as I read their names and heard their voices, what the lives of each of these people were like right now. What were they feeling? What were they thinking about? And most importantly, were they alone?

One patient I called caught me off guard as her husband picked up the phone and explained that his wife was chasing two-year-old grandkids around the living room and to please hold. Out of breathe but a fresh laugh in her voice, this woman eventually came to the phone to answer my questions. She said she was appreciative of the call but that she was being well cared for. I hung up still thinking about what her house sounded like during that five-minute conversation. It was the opposite of quiet and heavy—it was actually happy, with screams and laughter from the other rooms. Even her husband, who will lose his wife in the next few weeks, sounded content.

I keep thinking about that woman, about her home, and comparing it to what my own might be if I knew my expiration date. No doubt it would be filled up with people, some good food, some movies on in the background, and much sitting on couches telling stories. But no matter what would be going on, I do know who would be there. And that is a comforting thought.

 

For everyone who has people to rally around them, this I am discovering is true—we are pretty damn lucky.