Category: News & Stories

Composite story written by John Mowry based on his experiences working with families at end-of-life.

My sister, brother and I sat in silence in the “family room”. The doctor had explained that Dad had suffered a life-threatening stroke and decisions needed to be made as to how Dad would want to be treated. “Would he want to be treated aggressively or would he want to be kept comfortable?” My sister looked at me and said, “How would we know what Dad would want? Isn’t the doctor supposed know what is best for a patient?” At which point my brother jumps in with, “Why are we even being asked about this? Dad would definitely want everything possible done. This is crazy!” “The doctor asked if Dad has an ‘Advance Care Plan’. I don’t even know what that is”.

The words of my siblings fade as my mind shifted to thoughts of Mom and Dad. Mom had died 5 years ago. At that time, I simply got a call from Dad informing me of her death. Dad is 92 years old. He had been physically active – golf in the summer months, curling through the winter and acted as the secretary of the local historical society until he was 90. The last two years however have not been kind to Dad. His eyesight and hearing, both failing resulted in him becoming increasingly isolated from the activities that had made his life so full. The last two years he had stopped golfing and curling. He had lost his confidence. At one point a year ago, he even mentioned that he was simply waiting until “it is time to be with your mother again.”

I found myself wishing that somehow, as a family, we could have had some conversation with Dad. Maybe Dad saying that he was simply waiting until it is time to be with Mom again was his way of trying to open up this conversation. If only we had not been afraid to have this discussion. If only.

April 16 has been declared National Advance Care Planning Day in Canada. Advance Care Planning is about having conversations with the person, or people who will make decisions for you if you are unable to speak for yourself. By reflecting on your own values, beliefs and wishes and having open, thoughtful discussions with your loved ones who will act as your Substitute Decision Maker, you will help them if they find themselves in a situation where they are being asked by a doctor or other health care professional about difficult decisions that may need to be made in such situations as the case of my 92 year old Dad.

The link below is a booklet that provides information on how to think about and approach these important conversations. Please take a few moments to look through this material. Imagine the peace of mind knowing that you are able to provide voice to a loved one.

By: Meredith Hill, Hospice Peterborough Volunteer

The Borland family lives across the road and we’ve only known them in a way that’s slightly more than acquaintances. However, in the last four years we have watched as Margaret, the matriarch in her eighties, struggled with and succumbed to Alzheimer’s. Though her children and their families had moved into the house for support, even their whole tribe was no longer able to provide for her and keep her safe and the decision was made for her to go to Fairhaven for care.

I was surprised when her husband, Wimpy, came to me, weeping that this had been the worst day of his life. After that opening, there were several conversations with different family members as they struggled with her decline and when she was transferred to hospital and then the palliative ward. The vigil began and we observed the gathering of the clan and the all night and all day comings and goings.

When we received the call that Margaret had died, I crossed the street and was welcomed into one of those sacred places where people were open in their mourning and storytelling …and I was privileged to just be there with them. One of the stories they told was the visit of the Bedside Singers. They knew of the connection I have with Hospice and asked me to tell everyone there how wonderful their visit had been.

The Borland’s have been key members of Saint James United Church since they were married there 65 years ago. Christian hymns are their language of sacred time. Margaret was no longer speaking when the Singers came to the ward that evening but as they sang, her family watched in awe as she began to mouth the words along with them. And that fully churched family joined in the singing in what became for them a tremendously meaningful time.

By the next day, as Margaret was clearly weaker, the fully gathered family went back to that experience with the Singers and began themselves to sing the hymns and songs that were part of their lifeblood. They’re not entirely sure at what point in the singing Margaret actually breathed her last breath, but they know that their gift of presence and music were important parts of her good death. They wanted Hospice to know the gift of those singers being there had meant so much to Margaret, who could not say thank you. The whole family very warmly extends their thanks.

By: Rachelle Kennedy, Hospice Peterborough Facilitator and Volunteer

There was a biting cold and wild wind that was gusting off the shores of the great lake that day. The waves were wicked and relentless. It was as though all the pent-up coldness of the season had risen to unleash itself on the tiny beach. It was hardly the sort of weather that makes one want to ramble and beach-comb, but that was exactly what we had come there to do.

I had driven to the lakeside town to meet with Annie*, a 10-year old girl I met through Hospice Peterborough only a month earlier. Annie came to Hospice with her mom, in search of grief support after the death of her best friend, Lara*. Lara had waged through a lengthy battle with a rare form of cancer – a struggle that brought with it long stays at Sick Kids hospital, the amputation of her leg, and eventually the inability to speak. Annie was by her side every step along the way.

I have been continually humbled and amazed by the bravery of the children I meet through my work at Hospice. Meeting Annie was no exception. From our first session together, as we sat on the floor of the hospice library, surrounded by paper and pastels and shelves of books; as she walked me through her experience of Lara’s diagnosis and illness and death, it was clear that Annie was a brave heart. At ten years old she had made the choice to walk through the fear and the unknown that cancer brings; to brave hospitals, to push wheelchairs, to sit bedside. She chose to learn to name the disease that was killing her best friend, to talk about it and to face it. Even after Lara’s death, Annie was brave enough to want to reach out for someone to help her make sense of what she was feeling, what she had lost.

So, on that day I drove an hour to meet brave Annie on the beach in her hometown. The weather was wild but we were both feeling strong. With all the force of the wind against us, we struck out with faces down and hoods pulled tight, searching the blustery sand for smooth pebbles and ever-treasured sea glass. Annie wanted something physical she could touch or do with her hands to help calm her mind when it started to burst with grief, especially when at school. A stone in the pocket is a simple idea that can be surprisingly grounding. Rather than give her one that had no context or meaning, it felt right to search for one together in a place she could return to whenever she needed.

With our fingers turning frosty red and our cheeks whipped with wind, we paused only once from our pebble hunting, to stand side-by-side as close to the waters edge as we safely dared. I have learned that sometimes the unwieldy storms inside of us can only be outdone by the rugged wildness of the natural world around us. Sometimes turning my cold face to the blowing wind and crashing waves can bring a breath of calm to my unsettled mind. So, Annie and I stood face-to-face with the waves, and counted to three, and yelled together at the top of our lungs, trying to loosen some of the anger and sadness that settles in our bones, and release it to the billowing wind.

When our pockets were full and faces too cold, we found a bench with some shelter and spread out our beach-combed treasures: a mighty handful of smooth colorful stones, a generous trove of sea glass, and even one rare big pebble with a hole worn right through the center. Annie thought she might tie one to a string so she could wear it around her neck, have it with her all the time. I kept one for my pocket so I wouldn’t forget the brave and wild beauty of the day.

Hospice work is about many things – some of them practical, some of them painful, some of them incredibly challenging and exhausting. Too often, when people have learned of my work with children and hospice, they have responded by praising me for “being a good person”. If only they knew.

If only they knew what an honor it is to keep company with someone like Annie. If only they knew how humbled I am by her courage, by her willingness to trust; if only they knew how lucky I felt to stand beside her and yell into the wildness, knowing that the story she carries inside her is sacred and huge.

That time with Annie on the shore of the great lake was a potent reminder for me that sometimes courage is all about just showing up, and that maybe the strongest thing we can do some days is to not turn away from the wildness around us, but rather count to three and howl our story into the wind.

*All names have been changed for confidentiality

Raechelle Kennedy is a Hospice Peterborough Facilitator and Volunteer who has worked with our children’s grief group program for several years. She is an expressive arts practitioner and spends the winter months in Australia with her partner, writing and enjoying life down under. You may read more of her writings by checking out her blog http://www.blackbirdstudio.ca/?p=3167