The unexpected . . . or what teenagers taught me about conversation

Some days hospice work bears a certain resemblance to working with teenagers. Anyone who has worked with (or had) teenagers knows that some of the best conversations you have are the ones that take place in the car. Whether it's the forced intimacy or the lack of eye contact, or just serendipity, a car ride can turn into an unexpected opportunity for sharing. Something special can take place in that moment. You can't plan for it or expect it or extend it. You can only experience it and give thanks for it.

Some days you have moments like that in hospice. Again, you can't plan it and you can't force it. And just because you had that special moment once with a patient or family, you can't expect it to happen again.

Much like moments in the car, some of these moments happen when I am not looking at my patient. This week I was sitting with a patient who does not talk a lot. He does like it, however, when the social worker or I sit quietly next to him and do our paperwork. He likes the company and the companionship.

The other day I sat next to him with a big afghan on my lap. The afghan belonged to another patient. It had been lost and then found in the laundry by a facility CNA. The yarn had broken in some places, been pulled out in others, and had open stitches that were unraveling. I had told the CNA that I would try to fix it. (Fortunately I usually carry knitting and had both a crochet hook and a yarn needle in my car.)

So I sat next to my patient and focused my attention on the yarn and the open stitches. I don't know whether it was my attention to the task, my awareness of some of his issues and concerns, or my thoughts focusing on Elul,  but as I talked with him about what I was doing it turned into one of those unplanned, special moments.

I commented that it could be a challenging task to try to fix something that had been torn or broken. "Yes," he said. I sewed some more and said, "I know I can't make this perfect, but at least I can mend some of the holes and keep it from getting worse." He agreed. Although he's not much of a talker, I realized he was very focused on my words and actions. So I continued to mend the afghan and talk about repairing the things we could, letting go of the things we couldn't, and forgiving ourselves for not being perfect. He would listen, make a tiny comment or a sound of acknowledgment. This continued until there was no more yarn to reattach.

I know that I got a great deal out of this unexpected moment and conversation. I think that he did as well, for I have an invitation to visit again . . . and to bring my knitting.