What is the measure of a life?

comforter quest

This post was prompted by my one of my  clients.
We were looking at old photos, and I picked up one that showed three friends, tall, 20-somethings, dating back to perhaps taken in 1957. He pointed to the man on the right, "Church Minister", pointed to the one on the left, "Teacher". Pointed to the man in the middle, "Me.", and shrugged his shoulders as if to say his life was inconsequential.

Many of my Lanark County clients were farmers, ferriers, contractors; ordinary people, with ordinary lives. Many have interesting stories to tell me.


What is the measure of a life?
It is not in the value of the car, the home, the land, a salary, or a career. It is not in the style of one's hair, the clothes one wears, nor the shape of a body. The value of a person is in how s/he is treated by those who love them. And, in return, the love s/he shows for them. Sometimes that love is simply in accepting a loved one's help. Sometimes it is in accepting the help of a stranger. Sometimes the help of many strangers.

Rest easily, December 1937 - 2011

We know that the measure of a person is...immeasurable.
God Don't Make No Junk, I've read here and there. We cannot measure some by their deeds, as many haven't climbed mountains, or won fame and glory.

We have seen the laud and praise heaped on the late Canadian Jack Layton, the late Ottawa journalist Earl McRae, Jamie Hubley, or 33-year-old Danielle Naçu.

These people have won the hearts of those whom they'be touched. But we cannot judge a person by how many attend their funeral, or whether they achieved greatness and glory. My late father had 9 people at his funeral. Predeceased by my mother, my mother's neighbour and dear friend told me she didn't have the heart to attend Dad's funeral. Mom died on Mother's Day weekend, 2006, Dad died Feb. 16, 2007. Funerals aren't for the dead, they are for the living. There is much comfort in sharing grief, even a stranger's grief.

Can't measure a person
by the cost of childbirth
$42.00 in 1937

Wee young Jamie Hubley, a gr. 10 student who died by his own hand, had many strangers at his funeral. After facing bullies, homophobics, teasing and depression. (We cannot call it committing suicide, as if this person was a felon.) He was driven into taking his life by his mental ill health.

Wanda liked the comforter

These are the sung heroes. The unsung heroes are those to toil in caring for a palliative family member, with no hope and no support. They get little attention. They get up every day and do it all over again. Family caregivers are immeasureable, too. I've been there. I know. Some receiving Home Care could have a dozen or more different PSWs and/or nurses to care for them. Continuity is difficult. We are short such staff in Ontario.
Thankfully, in Canada, we do not measure a life. All receive healthcare.

I love this message: All we need is...

Someone to love,
Something to do,
Something to hope for!

Someone to love

When my parents died, and I quit teaching, I knew I had people I loved, and family who loved me: my husband, children, grandchildren, cats. Care recipients feel unloveable and imagine themselves a burden. Tell them you love them.

Something to do
I didn't have much to do, had burned out caregiving, and had little left to do on a daily basis. I had everything I needed and wanted: family, a decent home, a modest pension. But the daily routine of getting up, making lunch, going out to work, changes your life. Many who retire find it difficult having nothing to do.

Something to hope for
I had lost hope. I was content with my life, but knew something was missing. We have enough money to repair and maintain our home, and live simply. We do not travel abroad, that is something neither of us wish for. We spend much time in the region, traveling to fairs and festival, eating at new restaurants, taking photos, capturing photos of flora and fauna.

I found something to hope for after volunteering. I hoped to make a difference. I have channelled my hopes into hoping to have a good day. I work out for a half hour. Work outdoors gardening, or raking, creating sculptures in our yard. I dug a goldfish pond in late summer. That was fun. I'd hoped for a goldfish pond and it turned out to be a frog pond!

Doing end-of-life care is very rewarding to me. This is my 'something to do', now.

I bought this Angel of Courage
for my late mom,

I took it in to my client.

I am concerned that those who are palliative do not end up like my father: angry, morbid, agitated, and in pain. I have spent many hours doing a life review with clients, something I wished I'd done with my Mom and Dad. He lost hope, and we seldom spoke during his dying of the good times; his earliest or his favourite memories, his message to his children, his favourite childhood memories.

There are things to hope for at this stage of life. Many talk about the language we use around cancer. We must eradicate the 'battling cancer' imageries, for many should not be called losers. It is not a war. Cells gone wrong is what cancer is about. You body manufacturing faulty cells.

It's not a battle. Those who die by their own hand have lost hope.
At death's door you hope for support, a kind word, a soft touch.

Hope means laughter
What helps is a good laugh. I take this book into all of my client's. Dr. Seuss. My current client calls me "Dr. Seuss", as he couldn't remember my name in the sea of names and faces or caregivers that come and go from his home. For those with poor eyesight I read it to them. Others refuse to read this "kid's book!"

Very comical and priceless for 7's to 70's!

Why fit in when you were born to stand out? ~ Dr. Seuss

Unfortunately, many are no longer able to stand.

 I usually dress up when volunteering. No uniform, bright colours. It pleases those who are feeling drab. My late mother spoke of her best friend, Darya Arden, visiting her after a miscarriage sometime in the 1950s, and her friend wore her best red dress, and a bright red hat. Aunt Darya brought me bright red strawberry soaps when MY daughter was born (1979).

You hope to be clean and pain free.
Some people find something to hope for in a smiling face of a caregiver. It doesn't matter what you say, but it is how you look at and treat another person. The comfort of someone who gives you unconditional love.

That man is wealthy beyond measure. Whether it be a son who is there when he is needed, or a stranger who gently changes a bed, or another who sits in amicable silence. That man is rich.

A cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. 
    -Oscar Wilde, writer (1854-1900) 

Conclusion of #comforterquest

Poor old Wanda, the cat, is sitting vigil under her daddy's bed. She had a quiet day.

My client was in fine fettle this afternoon.
After I'd walked in wearing my Leafs jersey, we'd shared our joke.
As I left he said, "Go, Sens, go!"

His evening PSW he told, "If you see a guy with a long beard and tattoos, he's my son. Just tell him, "Down, Rob, Down." He has some precious moments. I would have loved to have known him when...

some tattoo!

Stu got the comforter from Michael Nagy, the buyer, downtown in Ottawa. 

I phone Rob and asked if he'd be my body guard while I sat in a parking lot. Truth. He'd been napping while the other caregiver was there. He usually did the midnight shift when Dad need meds or TLC.

Stu catches the comforter downtown Ottawa
from Michael Nagy

There was a plan for Stu and I to meet. I figured I might be able to make it fun. Truly didn't want to drive alone.

Yes, it's true. I picked up Rob. We sat in the Franktown Parc 'N Ride, me and my client's son. Waiting, hoping the cops didn't come by. If they did, I had the print out of many of the tweets of this developing story. Under strict instructions to phone home when we arrived I did.
Hubby told us we were early and might have time to pop into a couple of pubs while we were waiting. Truth is, you can't even get a pop in Franktown at 9:00 at night!

It was around 9 pm, a small white car pulled into the parking lot. There was a logo on the side, and it wasn't the OPP! It was Stu.

The handover in the parking lot!

 Rob was handed the comforter by our hero, Stu. Giggles all around.

Rob & Stu: Franktown: From Cottage Country Reflections

We sat and laughed and Rob said it was touching and wonderful –all that everyone did for us. Ah well. The deed is done and we all made a son very happy.

I took Rob home, and we went up to see his Dad. Dad was sleeping. I reached over and touched his shoulder, a frail hand reached up from under his covers and said, "Go away and let me sleep!"

Rather a hoot after all this, but understandable. Me an' my tattooed friend, Rob, had a blast. Dad went back to sleep.

My client has his comforter. That's the important thing, and I am burned out. I took Saturday off, and visited with my friends and grandkids. I haven't had a life since taking up this quest a week before.
I've had this client for two weeks.

Read the first segment here. "The Ottawa-Carleton-Gatineau #comforterquest", the power of social media to work for good.

UPDATE:

Apparently I was out of the loop. The Sens had been talking to Stu all along. I'm not sure why they didn't contact me directly. Sens head office phoned Stu, quite miffed at my suggestion that their support was lukewarm.

They offered to have Spartacat to deliver the comforter.

I declined this potential exploitation of my client, a Spartacat photo-op. One is not at their best when palliative with cancer. I still submit that they could have sent some swag. They got a lot of tweets and CBC coverage from this.
But that is just my opinion and I am entitled to it, sitting as I did, bedside afternoons for two weeks straight.

 I don't know what motivates people.
@Monkeyboard was the most altruistic, as was the anonymous benefactor who offered to pay to have the comforter transported to us in Perth, or Janine who offered to pick it up and get it out to us in Lanark County.

photo from Stu Mills' camera
my flash crapped out