I was in hospice, caring for an older woman who seemed to be really suffering.
I was struck by how often she called for pain medicine. What we give there isn't the weak stuff. I'm 'narcotic naive' (meaning no built-up tolerance to narcotics), and I thought to myself “wow…if I took this much in the course of my shift, I don't know if I'd be breathing by the end of it.”
The fourth time she was my patient for the night, I was taking in another dose of morphine — and out of nowhere I was impulsively struck to ask her a question.
Have you forgiven everyone?
That sprang out before I could even consider it.
She stopped everything. In the silence that fell on us, she looked me square in the eye — and with a drawn-out reply coupled with a slow back and forth of her head, she said
Ohhh … that's hard.
I stayed in her room a lot that night. She related a long, complex story about the grief and torment her ex son-in-law had delivered to their family, and to her in particular.
He had been out of her life picture for better than a decade and a half, but the bitterness was well and deeply rooted. She got out all the details. She said, “I can never forgive him.’
We had a long talk about forgiveness, what it is, what it's not, and why it was so very, very important.
I was back a couple of days later, and noticed she hadn't asked for any pain medicine. As soon as I could, I stopped by her room, walked in and said,
“You forgave that man, didn't you…?”
She replied, “Yes, yes I did.”
That shift, she slept so well, and looked so ... peaceful and eighteen tons lighter. I was so happy for her. I was off the next few days.
When I got back, she wasn't there.
Confession done. A round of forgiveness bought for the whole house. Lightened up, it was time to fly.
I was struck by how often she called for pain medicine. What we give there isn't the weak stuff. I'm 'narcotic naive' (meaning no built-up tolerance to narcotics), and I thought to myself “wow…if I took this much in the course of my shift, I don't know if I'd be breathing by the end of it.”
The fourth time she was my patient for the night, I was taking in another dose of morphine — and out of nowhere I was impulsively struck to ask her a question.
Have you forgiven everyone?
That sprang out before I could even consider it.
She stopped everything. In the silence that fell on us, she looked me square in the eye — and with a drawn-out reply coupled with a slow back and forth of her head, she said
Ohhh … that's hard.
I stayed in her room a lot that night. She related a long, complex story about the grief and torment her ex son-in-law had delivered to their family, and to her in particular.
He had been out of her life picture for better than a decade and a half, but the bitterness was well and deeply rooted. She got out all the details. She said, “I can never forgive him.’
We had a long talk about forgiveness, what it is, what it's not, and why it was so very, very important.
I was back a couple of days later, and noticed she hadn't asked for any pain medicine. As soon as I could, I stopped by her room, walked in and said,
“You forgave that man, didn't you…?”
She replied, “Yes, yes I did.”
That shift, she slept so well, and looked so ... peaceful and eighteen tons lighter. I was so happy for her. I was off the next few days.
When I got back, she wasn't there.
Confession done. A round of forgiveness bought for the whole house. Lightened up, it was time to fly.