This week . . .

Working with hospice means that I spend my days surrounded by death and by life, often at the same time. This week I sat with a family as their mother was actively dying. I provided some education on the dying process and on pain management, I recited some prayers, but mostly I listened. The children held their mother's hand, stroked her forehead, and told stories. They laughed as they remembered family moments and as they spoke, the mother who had been lost to them by dementia over the past years became a vibrant presence in the room, even as her dying body struggled to take yet another breath.

This week I attended a wake. My Jewish sensibilities still make me uncomfortable with open caskets ("She looks so peaceful") no matter how often I've been exposed to them. And yet, going to the wake is a powerful moment of connection. It says to the family that we are haven't abandoned them. We're present for the dying, at the death or the pronouncement, and our care continues as we stay involved with the family for the year after their loved one dies. The wake also gives me the opportunity to view family dynamics and see what kind of support is present for the spouse, the child, the sibling. Knowing what kind of support is there helps us help the family.

This week I arrived at a nursing home just minutes after our patient died. The family was still present. I was able to offer our condolences, to remind them that our care and contact will continue for the next year, to give a needed hug, and to accompany them back to the bedside to offer final prayers. I hope my presence brought a measure of comfort. I know that the staff was grateful for my presence.

This week I wondered, as I often do, what rituals are there for the professional caregivers to help us when the deaths pile up around us. What does a funeral director or a chevra kadisha member do after they prepare a body for burial. How do they make a separation between their sacred work and their daily lives? I know of nurses whose custom when they get home is to strip off their work clothes, shower, wash their hair, and change into home clothes. Only then do they join their family, prepare dinner, read the mail. Others tell me they listen to specific music on their ride home to take them out of their professional caregiver role and back into their family role. I know of many personal rituals that we use to make a transition between what we do and who we are, but I wonder sometimes if we do enough to help us make the distinction.

This week I asked myself: How do I make sure that I am caring for myself and not being consumed by the care I give?