Sadness Seeps
I'm not so sure I used to feel this way. Maybe I did. Maybe I just didn't know I did.
I've been doing this hospice ministry, and the bereavement listening that goes with it, for, oh, over 8 1/2 years now. Most of the time I feel privileged, utterly honored to be in the position I am, to hear people share the most raw aspects of their lives, and to be able to offer them a tender voice, and hopefully a tender heart.
The question always is, for a professional, just how "tender" should the heart be? Indeed, how tender can it be... consistently...
I've noticed a change in myself lately, but maybe the change is less "in" me than in my awareness of myself... I've noticed that I feel hurt inside when I talk with people who hurt...
Today, let's see, I did a funeral; I returned about half a dozen phone calls from people looking for information about our bereavement services, and yes, some consolation along with the information. And late in the afternoon I reached a woman with whom I'd been playing a bit of phone tag: she is the mother of an 18 y/o daughter, killed when the car she was riding in was struck broadside by a man driving the wrong way down the freeway.
Who knows why these things happen?
Anyway, as she talked I could feel my heart grow sadder, soaking up her sadness, letting her pain and confusion seep into me. I allowed this willingly... I didn't resist it, nor defend with a "professional" voice or manner. I just let her sadness seep... into me... and my heart grew heavy...
It isn't everyone who has this effect on me, and truly, I don't think I could answer the phone if I was this porous with everyone... But even before we talked I was vulnerable: I knew why she was calling; I knew what her situation was; and I have a 19 y/o son... I found myself imagining what it'd be like to lose him, especially to some sudden random act of madness or violence. It happens. It happened to her! My ears were already open before we talked; I had pre-decided to let her pour herself in...
The thing about the "privilege" of my position is that, in everything I do, whether hospice or bereavement, there is an "entertainment" of possibilities: this could happen to me. Men dying alone: this could happen to me. Parents whose children die: this could happen to me. Husbands or lovers whose wives or SO's die: this could happen to me. I could go on...
Love leaves us SO incredibly vulnerable to loss... Not just the broken, romantic heart, but the disappearance forever and in the blink of an eye of one who'd cradled a piece of your heart... Now THAT'S heartbreak! ...that's heartbreak...
And when the heart breaks that way, sadness flows out like the levees breaking in New Orleans after Katrina. Now wonder there is ample amounts to seep into any body willing to wade into the flood...
So now I have to find a way to dry out my soggy heart... It wouldn't do for it to get moldy...
I've been doing this hospice ministry, and the bereavement listening that goes with it, for, oh, over 8 1/2 years now. Most of the time I feel privileged, utterly honored to be in the position I am, to hear people share the most raw aspects of their lives, and to be able to offer them a tender voice, and hopefully a tender heart.
The question always is, for a professional, just how "tender" should the heart be? Indeed, how tender can it be... consistently...
I've noticed a change in myself lately, but maybe the change is less "in" me than in my awareness of myself... I've noticed that I feel hurt inside when I talk with people who hurt...
Today, let's see, I did a funeral; I returned about half a dozen phone calls from people looking for information about our bereavement services, and yes, some consolation along with the information. And late in the afternoon I reached a woman with whom I'd been playing a bit of phone tag: she is the mother of an 18 y/o daughter, killed when the car she was riding in was struck broadside by a man driving the wrong way down the freeway.
Who knows why these things happen?
Anyway, as she talked I could feel my heart grow sadder, soaking up her sadness, letting her pain and confusion seep into me. I allowed this willingly... I didn't resist it, nor defend with a "professional" voice or manner. I just let her sadness seep... into me... and my heart grew heavy...
It isn't everyone who has this effect on me, and truly, I don't think I could answer the phone if I was this porous with everyone... But even before we talked I was vulnerable: I knew why she was calling; I knew what her situation was; and I have a 19 y/o son... I found myself imagining what it'd be like to lose him, especially to some sudden random act of madness or violence. It happens. It happened to her! My ears were already open before we talked; I had pre-decided to let her pour herself in...
The thing about the "privilege" of my position is that, in everything I do, whether hospice or bereavement, there is an "entertainment" of possibilities: this could happen to me. Men dying alone: this could happen to me. Parents whose children die: this could happen to me. Husbands or lovers whose wives or SO's die: this could happen to me. I could go on...
Love leaves us SO incredibly vulnerable to loss... Not just the broken, romantic heart, but the disappearance forever and in the blink of an eye of one who'd cradled a piece of your heart... Now THAT'S heartbreak! ...that's heartbreak...
And when the heart breaks that way, sadness flows out like the levees breaking in New Orleans after Katrina. Now wonder there is ample amounts to seep into any body willing to wade into the flood...
So now I have to find a way to dry out my soggy heart... It wouldn't do for it to get moldy...
posted by TRXTR | 7:46 PM
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