Translator: Jake Meyer Reviewer: Denise RQ
Ladies and gentlemen, Kim Vesey.
(Applause)
I suspect most of you have experienced birth,
either yourself or through a loved one.
(Laughter)
It usually goes like this:
a woman notices changes in her body, and she suspects something is different.
She goes to the doctor, and she's diagnosed with pregnancy.
(Laughter)
She has a rush of emotions,
for, in that moment, she knows her life is changing forever.
She tells her friends and family.
Her calendar becomes dotted with doctors' appointments.
There's the opportunity to prepare.
Picking a name, decorating the nursery,
and for pregnant women, there's great joy in preparing for the birth of their child.
And then there are signs
that the big event is nearing.
The very closest of friends and family are called to the bedside
to await that most sacred moment:
the first breath of life.
Now, I invite you to settle back
as I compare the common experience of birth
with the emotional experience of facing the end of life.
It usually goes something like this:
a person notices changes in their body, and they suspect something is wrong.
They go to the doctor, and they are diagnosed with a terminal illness.
They have a rush of emotions.
For, in that moment, they know their life is changing forever.
They tell their friends and family.
Their calendar becomes dotted with doctor's appointments.
There's the opportunity to prepare.
Updating a will,
marking an item or two off of their bucket list.
But you see, unlike birth, preparing for death is not a joyous occasion.
So while some people will prepare, many will not.
And then there are signs that the big event is nearing.
The very closest of friends and family are called to the bedside
to await that other most sacred moment:
the final breath of life.
I've had the honor and the privilege
of being a hospice nurse for over 30 years.
And the years I spent caring for patients at the bedside,
I walked with over 1,000 patients and families on their end of life journey.
I was at the bedside of over 100 people
as they took their final breath.
Each one truly a sacred experience.
People who are dying have a very unique perspective on life,
different than yours and mine.
It can make them incredible teachers.
Today, I'm going to share two of the many lessons my patients taught me.
The first is that, like birth, death can indeed be beautiful.
And the second, is that we have the choice,
when we're experiencing significant life changing events
to approach them with our head,
thinking, planning, doing, researching.
Just about anything but feeling.
So we can approach events with our heads,
or we can approach these events with our heart.
And that's where the emotion comes in.
That's where the feeling is,
or we can be vulnerable, or we can talk about our fears.
or we can talk about dreams that may not come to fruition.
We can reminisce.
We can tell somebody how much they mean to us,
and how much we love them.
We can even create new memories.
Ideally,
it's a blend of both, head and heart presence.
I have a few stories that I think will help illustrate this more clearly.
Mary, was a 75-year-old woman who had had breast cancer for many years.
In recent months, her cancer had spread to her bones and had infected her spine,
so she was no longer able to walk.
On my first visit to their home,
I knocked on the door, and her husband Frank came to the door,
and he steps out and closes the door behind him, and he rather roughly says,
"She doesn't know she has cancer, and she's not going to, got it?"
Well, my hospice training had taught me to meet patients and families
where they are, so I simply said OK.
Our first few visits
with Mary, and Frank, and our hospice team went pretty routinely.
And one afternoon, as I was leaving, she took my hand and she said,
"Kim, why can't I walk?"
and "Will I ever walk again?"
Frank was standing at the foot of the bed, and I looked at him,
and he simply shook his head no.
He was a place of primarily head presence.
He was protecting her.
Even though it was out of love, he was protecting her.
So I told Mary that I would have to answer that question on my next visit.
And Frank and I walked to my car, and I explained to him
that this was Mary's end of life experience,
that she was asking,
that she was of sound mind, that she had the right to know.
So with Frank's permission on my next visit,
I pulled up a chair, and I sat next to Mary,
and I explained why she couldn't walk and that she would never walk again.
Tears began to spill down her cheeks.
But you see, they weren't tears of sadness, they were tears of gratitude.
She said, "Thank you, thank you.
That's what I thought, but no one would tell me,
and I just needed to know."
And I glanced down at Frank, in his usual spot at the foot of the bed,
and he too had tears spilling down his cheeks.
You see, his were tears of relief.
He had entered into heart-presence.
That burden had been lifted.
The secret was out.
The remaining three weeks of Mary's life,
she and Frank had deeper, more meaningful conversation.
She died at home with Frank at her side.
Christie was a 27-year-old single mom.
She had two children, aged four and six.
She had been battling AIDS for many years.
She laid most of her day in the recliner chair in the living room,
and her mom had moved in to help care for her and her children.
What struck me on my first visit was the darkness of the house.
In the middle of the day, the blinds were pulled.
There was no TV or music.
Lights were off.
The children were in a back bedroom,
so they were quiet and not disturb their mother.
As the hospice team began to provide care for this family,
we literally helped to bring light and life into their home.
It was interesting to watch the transition,
as I'd show up for a visit and the blinds were open.
There'd be music playing or the TV on,
the children sitting at the foot of the recliner playing games.
There were times that I came,
and the children were now in the recliner with their mom,
reading stories, making new memories.
One particular day I arrived, and I walked into the kitchen with Christie's mom,
and I could hear giggling.
The children were giggling.
What a heart-warming sound.
They were looking at a photo album of better times, happier times,
reminiscing.
They told me a story that Christie was a local country western singer,
and she performed in clubs around town.
Her trademark outfit was this bright red, sequenced vest,
big blond hair.
And her voice was the voice of an angel.
It was hard to imagine
as I looked at her 70-pound body, failing, lying in that recliner.
Much sooner than anyone had hoped, Christie died at home, comfortably,
with her mom and her children at her side.
But that's not the end of the story.
A few nights later, when I got to the funeral home to attend her visitation,
her six-year-old daughter met me at the door and literally took my hand
and pulled me through the funeral home, past the people waiting in line.
She said, "Come quick, you have to see."
We got to the edge of the casket, and there was Christie
in her bright red, sequenced vest, and her big blond hair.
Her daughter looked up at me with her big, brown eyes, and she said,
"Look Miss Kim, God made mommy beautiful again."
Indeed, He had.
Yes, death, like birth, can be beautiful.
My final story is more personal.
Tomorrow will be the tenth anniversary of my husband
being diagnosed with colon cancer at the age of 48.
The night we sat down with our children to tell them that their dad had cancer,
our son Patrick, at the time,
and our daughter Sarah, who was 17 at the time, a senior in high school,
he looked at her and said, "Don't worry Sarah,
I'll be there for your graduation in the spring."
A few days later, he had surgery,
and we learned at that time that the cancer was wide-spread.
His prognosis was poor.
He was deemed "terminal".
I will be forever grateful to the patients who taught me and prepared me
for my personal journey of walking the end of life experience with my husband Les.
When we got home from the hospital, my hospice friends began to tell me,
"It's time for hospice."
Me, the person who knew hospice, who knew the beautiful benefits
of symptom management, comfort, emotional support, and spiritual support;
I looked at my friends, and I said, "No."
(Laughter)
"No.
"He doesn't need it. I don't want it. He's not ready for it."
I didn't want him to think I was giving up.
A few more days of providing care, a little more weariness,
we called in hospice.
Because I realized I couldn't be his hospice nurse and his wife,
and do both of those well.
The hospice team came in, and within a few days,
Les had shared with them his promise to Sarah.
They went to work very quickly,
and the ambulance arrived a few days later at our home,
picked up Les and took him down the street to a community center.
We walked into the room, and many friends and family had gathered.
Patrick and I took our place at the side of Les's stretcher,
and the room became hushed.
The sound of "Pomp and Circumstance" filled the air,
and in processed Sarah in her white cap and gown.
She went to the superintendent,
and he bestowed upon her her high school diploma,
and just like any good graduate, she pumped her arm in the air.
Then she went straight to her dad and kissed him.
She said, "We made it dad."
She later explained that, in that moment,
she knew that she was telling her father goodbye,
that she knew that he could die in peace,
and that she could live the rest of her life
knowing that they had kept a promise to each other.
Just two weeks later, Les lay unconscious on our bed.
Patrick kneeling at the right side of the bed holding his hand.
Sarah lying across our bed holding Les's left hand.
His head was cradled in my arm.
My experience told me that death was near.
I said that to my children, and we each told Les we loved him.
With the help of our faith and our family, our friends, and certainly, hospice,
we bid Les a beautiful and love-filled farewell.
It's my hope for you that if,
when,
you face losing someone you love,
I hope that you can be present with not just your head,
but that you'll have the courage to be vulnerable,
and be present with your heart,
so that you to can be witness to the sacred beauty of death.
(Applause)