Sharing the Journey...

When I'd thought about the conversation I was about to have last Monday evening, I'd envisioned a lonely table in a bar too dimly lit to be able to recognize anyone further than halfway across the room. Two glasses, and a bottle of scotch.

For the record I don't drink scotch, nor have I ever. Outside of the occasional (as in maybe twice a year) half glass of wine, I don't drink alcohol; it leaves me feeling outside of myself and it's not a feeling I enjoy. I don't know why I equate solemn conversations with a good stiff drink - too many Hollywood movies I suppose filling my brain with such ideas.

In a previous post I'd mentioned that I'd been asked to speak to a group of volunteers being trained in palliative care. A brave move on their part to participate in this program, the word palliative can scare many a folk away and here were men and women who were embracing the idea of caring for patients with a poor prognosis.

Things happened pretty quickly last weekend starting with a call on Saturday afternoon from the training coordinator, asking if I would be up to speaking to his students in two days time. How does one go about preparing to have a conversation like this? To share with complete strangers what it feels like to be facing this journey? To let them know what I need and want from a volunteer?

The safest bet seemed to be to not overthink what might transpire. My first priority would be to establish that I spoke only for myself and my own experiences, I couldn't possibly come near to accurately expressing how other palliative patients might feel about their own unique situations.

I won't go into the long winded details of the hour and a half that I spent with this large group of caring and generous individuals. I went into it wanting to be of some small help (I feel pretty useless most days), but what I received from them was a far greater gift. I left feeling like I'd had that good stiff drink and had made new friends in the process, the welcome and the goodbye I received from the group lifted me to a place I'd not yet visited along this journey. 

My foremost goal had been to not scare these volunteers off the idea of caring for palliative patients; my participation in the evening felt like a great deal of responsibility. Turns out that we shared many fears. The fear of saying the wrong thing, the fear of not being helpful, the fear of offending, the fear of being misunderstood when ones' intentions are true.

There was a moment that struck me particularly deeply that evening. We'd been discussing what missteps (and I reiterate that I can speak only for myself here) can happen when strangers say things about my situation that I find difficult to digest. An example might be when I'm chided by a complete stranger for using the elevator when travelling only one level down, instead of taking the stairs like a person my age ought to. In their opinion I appear to be able-bodied (apparently if I can walk a very short distance into the elevator  and stand in it for a few moments I may as well be running marathons!)

There was a collective sigh of relief in the room when I answered the question of "have any of your volunteers made a misstep?" My answer came very quickly, and it was a decisive "No". 99% of what I need of a volunteer comes from the fact that each of these individuals were in that room on Monday evening. That they wanted to be a part of the journey for patients who have a rough road ahead. 

And an important detail, a good deal of the conversation was far from solemn - champagne would have been a more appropriate accompaniment from my perspective!

Showing up and wanting to be with me on my journey is just about everything I need wrapped in one beautiful package. I thank God and my lucky stars to have so many of these beautiful gifts around me.