Tuesday, April 13
My goal for this blog always has been to write honestly about my experiences at the Soldiers Home, and to share the stories of the amazing people I’ve met there. But I haven’t shared all of my experiences.
I haven’t written about some of my most poignant, and personal, encounters at the Soldiers Home out of respect—for the residents, for their privacy and for their families. These are the stories about their health.
The Soldiers Home is not an active 55+ community. Everyone there needs a little, or a lot of, help.
One resident recently stopped breathing for a scary spell when something caught in his airway. Another told me how he lost his leg—and it wasn’t in combat. People I consider friends have left for heart surgery, hip surgery or knee surgery—and, thankfully, all have come back.
As far as I’m concerned, those stories belong to them.
But on Tuesday, one resident’s health became my story. On Tuesday, a Hospice chaplain tracked me down in the Activity Center, and said we needed to talk.
She urged me to "wrap my mind around all the potential outcomes" of a resident’s illness. I was not prepared for this—not that I know how I would have prepared for it, anyway—and I might have been a teensy bit defensive and stubborn.
Looking back, I appreciate her candor, and her confidence. She offered valuable insight into the illness and its typical progression, along with some practical ways to help the resident, and myself.
And ever since, I keep thinking back to the first day I showed up to volunteer at the Soldiers Home. I had called my mom as I was leaving, giddy over the wonderful residents I’d just met and the happy possibilities of getting involved, and doing something, and making a difference.
"Be careful not to get too attached," she said, knowing full well this was not an active 55+ community.
"Too late," I told her. Too late.
My goal for this blog always has been to write honestly about my experiences at the Soldiers Home, and to share the stories of the amazing people I’ve met there. But I haven’t shared all of my experiences.
I haven’t written about some of my most poignant, and personal, encounters at the Soldiers Home out of respect—for the residents, for their privacy and for their families. These are the stories about their health.
The Soldiers Home is not an active 55+ community. Everyone there needs a little, or a lot of, help.
One resident recently stopped breathing for a scary spell when something caught in his airway. Another told me how he lost his leg—and it wasn’t in combat. People I consider friends have left for heart surgery, hip surgery or knee surgery—and, thankfully, all have come back.
As far as I’m concerned, those stories belong to them.
But on Tuesday, one resident’s health became my story. On Tuesday, a Hospice chaplain tracked me down in the Activity Center, and said we needed to talk.
She urged me to "wrap my mind around all the potential outcomes" of a resident’s illness. I was not prepared for this—not that I know how I would have prepared for it, anyway—and I might have been a teensy bit defensive and stubborn.
Looking back, I appreciate her candor, and her confidence. She offered valuable insight into the illness and its typical progression, along with some practical ways to help the resident, and myself.
And ever since, I keep thinking back to the first day I showed up to volunteer at the Soldiers Home. I had called my mom as I was leaving, giddy over the wonderful residents I’d just met and the happy possibilities of getting involved, and doing something, and making a difference.
"Be careful not to get too attached," she said, knowing full well this was not an active 55+ community.
"Too late," I told her. Too late.
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