Perspectives

Peaches

2012-01-13T16:54:00.001-08:00

In those days I was the exception–a married woman who went out to work, from choice. I had the drive and rose through the ranks in business to a good solid management position. I went to night school, studied, and kept up with the rapid innovations and technology. Time went quickly. My husband and I discussed retirement, the pros and cons. Contrary to the habits of our generation, my husband took an early retirement while I stayed in the workforce. The income would be practical, and besides, I enjoyed the routines and challenges of my profession.

Each day a meal was waiting for me when I returned home from the office. Happily my husband took to cooking, recalling the good plain foods his mother prepared, and he did her memory well–meatloaf, seasonal vegetables, and bread pudding. His favourite food of summer’s bounty was the peach. And while he loved fresh peaches best, he learned preserving to keep them for the winter. Peach pie, peach betty, chutney, and jam; with waffles on Easter morning; the comfort food for illness.

It was March, a hectic time because of the fiscal year end and upcoming audit, and we were anticipating the birth of our next grandchild. The phone rang. It was my husband wanting me to shop for peaches on my way home. I snapped, rebuking him sharply for this inconsiderate, absurd request for flavourless, hard-as-rock peaches. There were seven jars in the cold cupboard.

I arrived home about eight that evening. The house was dark except for the kitchen. The pine table was set, a pink rose, a white rose, a little greenery graced a blue vase. Oddly, I heard a tap dripping. Baking powder, salt, brown sugar, oats, butter, and bowls were lined in a row on the counter. The flour, oh the flour. It formed a delicate spray on the floor where my husband was resting. My heart jumped and my head split with light in stark understanding.

Now I am retired. There’s still too much time to think, despite my numerous volunteer commitments. I feel regret most deeply in August when the peaches are at their finest. I don’t eat them. They taste of guilt.

This March I made a donation in memory of my husband to a non-profit that is restoring a local economy through a farming co-op. The money will buy two goats, fertilizer, vegetable seeds, and fruit trees.

Rosaleen Rutledge 2010©

Bambi Rutledge is the administrator of the Canadian Catholic Bioethics Institute, a member of the Toronto Homelessness and Palliative Care Committee, and a graduate of the University of St Michael's College in the University of Toronto.

The Visit

2010-09-28T18:09:00.000-07:00

A month after Dad’s death, we decided we were ready to visit the hospice. We had small gifts for the nurses, volunteers, and staff, to show our appreciation. Their support made all the difference in the world.

The first person we noticed was Mac, the man from the room next to Dad’s. We always spent a little time with him because he never had visitors and looked so forlorn. What a change! He greeted us cheerily from his easy chair in the living room, a Canadian Geographic lay open on his lap. We said we’d come by after we saw the staff.

Despite the calm atmosphere, the hospice runs like clockwork and the staff work hard–we’d spent so much time here that we knew the routines–shift changes, new faces–admissions, medications scheduled, visitors, special diets, staff meetings, bereavement sessions. The volunteers had been expecting us–the table was ready. We had a few minutes with Dad’s caregivers–they were too busy to linger, but they were happy to see us.

Probably, like most people, we hadn’t understood that palliative care nursing is physically demanding. We thought there must be a roller-coaster of emotions–and just how did they manage to be so giving? Were there patients they couldn’t help? What did they bring home? We had so many questions now. But one thing was obvious about the staff and volunteers–they were Caregivers with a capital C. Professionals yes, but deeply aware, respectful, guardians, you might say, of these very sick, fragile people. Remarkable.

Mac was waiting for us. We didn’t want to tire him, but he insisted we have coffee before we headed home. He seemed eager to talk about himself as if he sensed we’d understand because of Dad.

Mac had been on his own since he was a kid–he took off because his stepfather made him do things he was ashamed of. He came to the city thinking he’d find work. He did, but it wasn’t what he had in mind. A decade later he was diagnosed as HIV positive. He managed for some years, occasionally living in motels, until his stamina yielded to disease, malnutrition, and neglect. He’d grown used to sleeping rough. He saw the school kids were afraid of him. His teeth fell out. His body itched. He stank. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the shelter’s infirmary. We listened carefully.

You’re supposed to die in a hospice he said–he fought coming here. Luckily he gave in–it was because the nurse on the health bus, the one he trusted, visited him. He assured Mac that he’d be in a good place. Regular medication means the pain isn’t absorbing Mac’s every thought and breath. He feels he’s been given a precious gift–time–a reprieve, a chance to make amends, mostly with himself. The chaplain comes by every day. Mac isn’t old, just 37, but he’s caught off guard, he announces the chaplain is a woman.

We see he has gained some weight. Mac told us the doctors confirmed that treatment would do him no good. Although Mac is not going to get better, there is improvement–you can see it in his spirited attitude. Antibiotics helped. The wheezing isn’t so bad. The hospice has arranged for him to stay–they’ll monitor him, and determine what’s best for him. Simple, I guess. He’s no longer sleeping rough. The meds cleared the pneumonia. A little appetite–food at hand. The Guinness (St Patrick’s Day surplus!) helps.

He’s nodding now. We promised to keep in touch. We will keep in touch.

Rosaleen Rutledge 2010©

Bambi Rutledge is the administrator of the Canadian Catholic Bioethics Institute, a member of the Toronto Homelessness and Palliative Care Committee, and a graduate of the University of St Michael's College in the University of Toronto.

Disintegration

2010-06-16T09:46:00.000-07:00

A man chatters happily in Spanish to me
As I ease off his winter boots
To feel the warmth of
Spring.
Holding two feet in my hands,
A shower of blackened flesh scatters the ground around us.
Like a snowfall.

We sit blinking at each other in the blinding sunshine
And I know I’ve come too late.

Laura Fairley 2005©

About poet Laura Fairley, RN, PhD (student)

Laura Fairley completed an undergraduate degree in Women's Studies and Political Science at McMaster University before coming to the University of Toronto where she received a Bachelor of Science in Nursing.

Laura spent two years working on the CONTACT mental health outreach service at St. Michael's Hospital providing community outreach and supportive services to individuals living with concurrent disorders before moving into the area of palliative care.

For the last four years, Laura has worked as a staff nurse at Perram House Hospice in Toronto's downtown core. She is currently completing her PhD at the Lawrence S. Bloomberg Faculty of Nursing, University of Toronto. Her doctoral thesis focuses on the provision of palliative care for the homeless and under housed population. Laura is a member of Toronto's Homelessness and Palliative Care Committee as well as a subscriber to the Homelessness Hub.

The Father

2010-04-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

You may have heard this story before.

My father was an alcoholic and a gambler. He fell slowly at first, then the descent seemed never-ending. Over the years we lost touch with him. We loved him, yet even that love grew indifferent as we matured and tried to make sense of our mixed-up, broken family.

The phone call from the hospice frightened us. It unleashed buried memories, pain, yearning for things we knew we could not claim. Our father was dying. Did we wish to visit him? Build bridges while it was possible?

It wasn’t easy. Even deciding to come to the city was a threatening experience. He wouldn’t be quite the same person we had known. The last beating was the most severe – three on one in the park – the three fled into the night, never found, never charged. We were told our father, this near-stranger, was brain-injured; he had hep C, cirrhosis, his liver was bad.

Still, his feisty charm caught us off guard. His clothes were clean, his nails trimmed, his face shaven, and he seemed more of the man he had been. The one we wanted to remember. We shared sandwiches and tea in the hospice kitchen, though we saw he couldn’t really eat. He said he didn’t recall the last time he had such comfort, sitting around the table like this, just being ordinary.

His friend from the shelter visited the next day, taking him in the wheelchair down the street to Tim’s. People were waiting there for him. Some of these friends didn’t want him to go anywhere when he got sick – he’d lose his room, the new one, no bedbugs. Where would he go when he got out of the hospital? They’d seen it many times.

He told us he was happy because, in this place, the nurses made sure he got his booze and smokes. No panhandling here. Were we worried he was going to get lung cancer? He laughed.

It was good, not perfect, but good. We cried a little when he died some days later, then we buried him with love and, yes, with some regrets.

This is only the last part of his life. So much came before. We learned he had many friends, he shared his room if someone asked to stay until the cheque came in; that the health clinic staff kept an eye on him, and asked after him if he wasn’t about. He picked up odd jobs until he was about 43. He couldn’t work after that, couldn’t follow orders or do one thing after another; he wanted his independence and didn’t like working under others. He demanded respect loudly, especially when he was high. His damaged brain made him volatile, childlike, unpredictable, dangerous. The boys – his friends – said he spoke of us at times, that he missed us, and, after a good day at the track, was determined to put his winnings into a trust fund for our education.

We have much to be thankful for. The nurses and volunteers, we could say all the staff in the hospice cared about him. The nurses bathed and cleaned him – they didn’t mind; they were firmly tender with him even when he was difficult. We saw how they engaged him, enjoyed being with him as they worked. Yes, the best things are coming back to us – we remember how we laughed at his corny jokes, how we could be gentle, forgiving, when he forgot who we were, how he perked up when his favourite caregiver came in, and his contempt at the foolishness that people would seriously consider topping themselves with a plastic bag or a pill cocktail. He preferred the real thing.

We go forward now and we are freed from some of those burdens we lived with because of him. We feel his frail arms around us, we smell the fragrance of second innocence, and know that he did not fear his dying.

Rosaleen Rutledge 2010©

Bambi Rutledge is the administrator of the Canadian Catholic Bioethics Institute, a member of the Toronto Homelessness and Palliative Care Committee, and a graduate of the University of St Michael's College in the University of Toronto.

Remember Me

2010-03-22T11:46:00.000-07:00

They found you on a urine-soaked couch
Under a cracked ceiling with no
Light.
Whispering breath,
Bugs scavenging
Your withered body.
Warehoused in an abandoned warehouse
Abandoned.

When they brought you to me
I thought you were already dead…
A skeletal corpse on a heap of starched linens
But when I gathered you in my arms
You opened your jaundiced eyes
And cried.

I gently cut off your jeans
Knees crusted in the dried salt of
December’s slush
And peeled off your shirt
Uncovering the canvas of your secret shames
And scars.

Drenched in a tide of liquid feces,
Your raw flesh sloughed off in my hands.
I knelt down next to the bed and slowly bathed you,
Soothing the deep burns found on your fingertips
And washing the mats out of your long blonde curly hair.

Swaddled in a clean cotton nightgown
And a warm purple quilt
I threw open the shutters of your window to let in the
Sunshine and the crisp blue Morning Sky.

You asked me where the hell you were.

You are home…

I spent the day perched on the side of your bed
Feeding you mouthfuls of
Rum and raisin ice cream,
And tending to the butterfly in your thigh.

You touched my cheek and asked me in a raspy voice
Not to forget you…
Gave me a watery, gummy smile.
The cadence of your heart changed.
Six hours later,
It fell silent.

Etched in my soul,
You're why I still find myself here.

Laura Fairley 2008©

About poet Laura Fairley, RN, PhD (student)

Laura Fairley completed an undergraduate degree in Women's Studies and Political Science at McMaster University before coming to the University of Toronto where she received a Bachelor of Science in Nursing.

Laura spent two years working on the CONTACT mental health outreach service at St. Michael's Hospital providing community outreach and supportive services to individuals living with concurrent disorders before moving into the area of palliative care.

For the last four years, Laura has worked as a staff nurse at Perram House Hospice in Toronto's downtown core. She is currently completing her PhD at the Lawrence S. Bloomberg Faculty of Nursing, University of Toronto. Her doctoral thesis focuses on the provision of palliative care for the homeless and under housed population. Laura is a member of Toronto's Homelessness and Palliative Care Committee as well as a subscriber to the Homelessness Hub.