Having been a volunteer for a local hospice organization for well over a decade, I have supported many patients and their families in a number of difficult circumstances. Dealing with the end of life is never easy, whether it involves the easing of physical pains or—more commonly—emotional ones. While a portion of people certainly approach death in peace, a number seem to become even more stubborn and willful in the face of their final hours. Such was the case with Mary Jane1.
A few years ago, I received Mary Jane’s contact information much as I did any other patient: my phone rang and my volunteer coordinator at that time, Joan, called with the basics of her situation. The hospice employees had always been extremely professional, only releasing what information was relevant for contact and possibly a little extra background information if the family or medical situation absolutely necessitated it; otherwise, it was all held in strict confidence and nothing beyond a phone number or address was ever remarked upon. Joan might pass along knowledge if she had any such as “This patient enjoys fishing,” or “That patient likes to do crossword puzzles,” but beyond that, it was up to me to find commonality. So it was strange when she gave me Mary Jane’s phone number at the nursing home and then said, “Just be aware that Mary Jane is a … personality.”
Intrigued but knowing I wouldn’t get anything else out of Joan, I called Mary Jane to find out for myself what, exactly, “personality” could mean. I soon found out.
It turned out that Mary Jane was in the care home because she had no family to speak of. Never having married and with no children, she seemed profoundly miserable in both an indistinct yet very articulate way. She didn’t have cancer or anything that any doctor had been able to diagnose, yet she complained incessantly about any and every pain, discomfort or even slight inconvenience. She needs the distraction of a conversation, I thought to myself. A friend. She just needs someone to talk to. “Hello Mary Jane. How are you today?”
Expecting a great litany of complaints with a captive audience, I was flummoxed by the silence that greeted me. “Fine,” she finally answered, as if challenging me.
I tried a different tack. “I heard you have a lot of pain.”
A huge sigh. “Yup.” Her one word conveyed what she thought of such a stupid question. Is that the best you can do?
Our conversation limped along, painfully, with me scrambling to think up questions and Mary Jane stretching out the silence or giving one-word answers. At the twenty-minute mark I finally gave up. “Can I call you next week?” I asked.
“Do what you like,” she said before hanging up.
And so it went: our calls were more sparring match than conversation. Each week I struggled to find common ground, to crack the code that was Mary Jane, to adapt to the gauntlet she had thrown for me. For I had a suspicion that was exactly what was going on. I tried asking questions, talking about myself and, finally, sitting in silence. While I am a person who is plenty comfortable with silence in person, on the phone it turned out to be excruciating. Even one minute stretched into forever, and the tendency to chirp mindlessly was nearly overwhelming. There was also a practical element: is the person even still there and listening or has the call just dropped? It was maddening.
Finally, a break: after one of the many fruitless, blundering attempts at connection, Mary Jane abruptly sighed. “These girls come in here, you know. What idiots.”
“Girls?” I asked, mindful that she was offering me a lifeline and hoping not to blow it.
She ignored my question. “They come in to see me and—God! They’re so silly. They don’t have the spine to stay. They are supposed to be back every week but they never do visit more than a few minutes and they never come back. Useless.”
I understood that Mary Jane also received in-person visits from volunteers. I took a chance that could either ruin everything or possibly cement things: “It’s probably because you’re a bit of a harpy.”
The shocked silence gave way to laughter, which continued for a good long time. “No one’s said that to my face in a long time.”
“Well, I didn’t say it to your face, so it was easier,” I pointed out.
She laughed again, and I could sense the wall had broken between us. “The nurse is here, but call me next week, will you?”
I promised I would, and I wondered if all it took this whole time was a quick insult to have melted her resolve. I thought not. Mary Jane was the type to need winning over a long period of time. She needed to build trust and to try and drive away those around her to see who would stay. Unfortunately, not many do under such circumstances.
Many of our loved ones, young and old, employ these strategies to see who will stay under their slings and arrows. Do you have what it takes to weather their assault? Perhaps not, and that is okay. But if you do, there may be a softer heart underneath than you realize. The perseverance of connection can sometimes reveal a hidden gem worth waiting for.
- All names have been changed ↩︎
It’s fascinating how personalities play such a significant role in hospice care. It must take a lot of patience and understanding to navigate those who are more resistant to accepting help. I can imagine how challenging yet rewarding it must be to find common ground with someone like Mary Jane.