There is something about a real-time face-to-face encounter with death that focuses the attention on things that matter. Unexpectedly, these are the times when many people suddenly come alive.
It is counter-intuitive; it is surprising; it is deeply rewarding; and sometimes it can be downright fun.
I visit patients in the Cancer Institute at Ascension St. Francis Hospital in Wichita, Kansas, twice a month. On a Friday afternoon I wear my authorized volunteer vest, complete with official ID card, and try to act like I know what I’m doing.
On the floor where the cancer patients are treated, which was my home away from home for 3 months in the summer of 2022, a nurse suggests patients who could use a visit.
Ravaged by cancer, ravaged by chemo
Last week I looked in on a man with a blood cancer that required debilitating chemotherapy treatments. He was asleep in his bed, IV tubes running here and there, with family around him.
The subject had been in-hospital for 3 weeks, and the chemo had ravaged him. He did not awaken while I was there, and my conversation with the wife and adult family members was carried on in low tones.
They were delighted to have a visitor who was not a nurse bearing an injection or a doctor bearing serious news.
I gave them my standard line of greeting: “Hi, my name is Curt, I am a volunteer, and my job is to spread joy and happiness in the cancer unit. Which is sometimes a tough sell.”
They laughed politely, and we talked about inconclusive subjects: How long has he been here, how is he tolerating the treatments, is he tired of the food yet, have you figured out the TV channels are a vast wasteland.
Among those gathered, there was a distinct air of hope and optimism.
When masks are off, real life shows through
I have seen this routinely: When confronted with in-your-face mortality, minor issues are dismissed. The focus is on family, love, appreciation, honor, sweet memories. More often than not there is some ludicrously humorous story of a fishing trip, a family picnic, a broken-down car.
The atmosphere is not unlike a Celebration of Life, but perhaps a little premature. Maybe there is some felt urge to practice for the Big Farewell, trying on moods to see how they will fit when the end comes.
Masks are cast aside on days like this. Life is at its most vulnerable. Genuineness reigns. It is a glimpse of life as it really is, precious and delicious there at the edge of death; an experience to be held and treasured.
I will probably never see that family again. Schedules being what they are, it is unlikely I will encounter that same patient during my infrequent visits.
There are several reasons why I love these hospital visits.
The privilege of volunteering
First, it is a privilege to see the patients and caregivers in their most pure and honest presentation. Most of life’s interactions are obscured by business and the necessities of daily life. The unaccustomed honesty of the hospital room is surprisingly refreshing.
Second, I get to reconnect with the nursing staff, those predominantly female professionals whom I got to know so well. I have life-long friends among them.
Finally, I get to see first-hand the results of the generosity of the Alligator Blog posse. When I handed a copy of Alligator Wrestling in the Cancer Ward to the sister of the sleeping patient, I had the privilege of telling her it was a gift from a donor she would never meet.
Many of you have responded to my request to make contributions to Via Christi Foundation. That group uses your gifts in part to purchase copies of Alligator Wrestling for complimentary gifts to patients and family at St. Francis and related cancer treatment facilities.
I know this costs you money, and the time to execute the gift. You do not get to see the impact, but I do. When I handed the book to the sister, she glanced uncomfortably to the family and said, “I’m flying back to Florida this weekend. I’d like to take in on the plane and read it.”
Her discomfort was that the others would not have access to the book. I pointed out there were other copies available in the Family Room down the hall; they could feel free to take another. She smiled with relief.
The book is a door opener for me to connect with a family. The message of hope and victory, even in the face of an uncertain future, gives comfort to many. I have to believe the proclamation of the Christian gospel, so clearly portrayed, will bear fruit.
There are those who, because of the circumstance, are suddenly more open to that message than ever before.
Your generosity abounds
So, I offer many thanks to those of you who have made these hospital visits profitable.
You can fund any quantity of books you like. A common choice is the 5-copy bundle for $100, tax-deductible. That keeps us in business a while longer, and it offers hope to a few more who desperately need hope.
Find the link at alligatorpublishing.com/via-christi. Your generosity is greatly appreciated.
Meanwhile, I will keep up my every-other-Friday visits, impersonating someone qualified to offer comfort and hope.
Visiting the cancer floor is the highlight of my week