Hospice Voices by Eric Lindner

Author:Eric Lindner [Lindner, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers
Published: 2013-10-10T00:00:00+00:00

March 30, 2010

“Hel-lo?”

“Is this Mrs. Burris?”

“It is. With whom am I speaking?” Her gravelly voice seems cordial but discriminating.

“My name’s Eric Lindner. I understand that Rosalie Palermo spoke with you? Told you I’d call?”

“She did.”

“Well, I’m just calling to see if, and when, I might pop by to introduce myself.”

“Now’s not a good time, I’m afraid.”

“Okay.”

“My best friend just died. My daughter-in-law’s mother, no less.”

“Rosalie told me. I’m so very sorry.”

“Thank you. The funeral is next week. Things are a bit hectic right now.”

“I can only imagine. I hope things go as well as, well, possible. I’ll ring you toward the end of next week.”

I ring her six days later. “Now’s still not a good time,” she says.

I ring her three days after that. “Sorry. Not a good time . . .”

I’m getting the sense she thinks it’ll never be a good time. But I don’t take it personally.

It’s often hard persuading patients to allow companions into their lives. The family might want it. Friends might say it’s a great idea. A chorus of professionals might sing the hallelujahs of hospice care. But none of this matters. It all boils down to whether a patient wants a stranger entering his or her life. There are few remaining opportunities to influence the course of her life, and it’s the patient’s prerogative to allow in—or to exclude—whomever, whenever.

It’s seldom a matter of cost. Most hospice services are covered by Medicare or are otherwise free of charge. As we approach the End, money’s just about irrelevant. What’s relevant is preserving a shred of privacy and dignity, which can be tough when you’re incontinent, your wig’s on backward, or you can’t find your false teeth.

Few are like Bob Zimmerman, who’d incessantly pestered Rosalie, seeking a companion. Most are, instead, nervous, cautious, skeptical, embarrassed, ambivalent, or all of the above. Some are completely against an alien intruder materializing out of nowhere just as they’re making their final arrangements—like that high-powered D.C. attorney with pancreatic cancer and Indian immigrant with AIDS who wanted nothing whatsoever to do with me.

That Mary Louise’s son, Jim, wants me to visit hardly seals the deal. If anything, based on what Rosalie’s told me, it may have only made matters worse, what with mother and son at odds, for whatever reason.

I’ve found this often to be the case, unfortunately: the lack of a meeting of the minds. You’d think there’d be an overwhelming desire by loved ones—to converge. You’d think that, this being the last chance for, say, a parent and a child to make peace—they’d jump at it. But instead, sadly, far too often some silly new skirmish rekindles a long-simmering dispute, based on some hoary injury or insult, decades old, often imagined. Instead of the End acting as a softening agent, it often adds more crust to the scab.

I’m not sure how raw things are between Jim and Mary Louise. Maybe things have been blown out of proportion. Perhaps I’ll learn more, but perhaps I won’t.

Maybe she’s decided that she knows best, determining that she doesn’t need me, or want me.

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