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?

Indulging myself

I splurged last week. A small splurge, but on what appears to be a totally unnecessary purchase. I think of it, however, as an important indulgence. What kind of splurge inspired this posting? I bought a skinit for my work phone.

I could argue that I needed it to distinguish my phone from all the other phones on those rare occasions when we're all in the office, but that isn't the reason I bought it. (Although I think that was part of the reason I gave myself.) I could say it was because there was a special deal with free shipping, but if I hadn't bought one I would have not only not paid for shipping, but I would have also not paid to buy it. My real reason for buying it was that I could choose and upload my own picture.


In the past four months, we've had a number of family simchas. We've also had one very difficult, untimely loss. The picture on my skinit is a joyful, smiling photo from one of the simchas. I can't look at it without smiling. I look at it and remember how happy we all were. I look at it and I remember that the pain of our loss was also a part of the day. The photo reminds me that a month after one of the worst days in our lives, we celebrated one of the happiest.

When I see this photo as I'm working, I'm reminded that all of us have mixtures of love and loss, celebration and loneliness in our lives. It reminds me not to take my blessings for granted. It reminds me that joy may be followed by sorrow and then again, God willing, by joy. The photo helps me remember that I want to work to live, not live to work. It reminds me to turn off the phone when the day or the week is over.


The photograph is not a talisman. It won't protect me from the pain that comes with my work or the pain that comes with life. But I hope it will protect me from becoming callous or indifferent. I hope it will always make me smile. When I think about the joy the photo gives me, it is clear that this splurge was not an extravagance and not really an indulgence, but another important weapon in my battle against burnout.