Keeping afloat in hospital

I watched a young mother phone her family from her hospital bed across from me.

The conversation was overheard in the darkness of the ward with about 10 beds. Full of those recently involved an accident or illness and an awful lot of elderly patients were in their midst. It was a group with which I was surrounded and I was kept awake at night by their groans of pain and sometimes excruciating cries of agony. Who knew that even a simple bed sore could cause every movement to be torturous? I grew to recognise the victim behind the drawn curtains. Their voices their groans and cries became familiar. Familiar but impossible to get used to. I don’t think we’re meant to lie and hear such suffering without responding in some way. And if we can’t respond by doing something useful then surely, we’re meant to respond in other ways? I think to be a human being is to be impacted by the suffering of others. If that does not occur, if there is no empathy then we’re all in trouble, deep trouble. 

The conversation started quite innocently she was telling her husband that she might have to stay another night in hospital, when they had been convinced that her release would be the next day. All her family members had been quite excited during visiting time that she would be back among them again not here imprisoned in the hospital ward with us. But a doctor had just informed her that her blood results were not quite as they should be and she would need to be another night tethered to a drip pumping medication through her system for hours. Devastated, she had phoned her husband late in the evening to break the bad news. He had sounded stoic. He was the one looking after their four-year-old daughter and probably had much juggling to do there, as well as keeping his young wife’s spirit high in this impossible situation. However, when he handed the phone to his daughter so that the four-year-old could say good night to her mummy, the four-year-old had been devastated. She cried. “I want my mummy! I want you here!” and just kept repeating the same thing again and again. Her mother was encouraging and bright and cheerful and said, “I’ll be there soon don’t worry it soon, it’s okay don’t worry, I’m fine. I’ll be home soon. I’ll soon be with you”, in a happy, enthusiastic voice. But the tears of the breathless four-year-old would not stop. The conversation ended and suddenly all the bravado that she had been bravely summoning drained away and she put her hands over her face and sobbed in the darkness. 

It’s heart-breaking at times this life. There’s not much anyone can do about that. But the least we can do is to be aware of the pain and the suffering and the hurt and not shut our eyes to it. What I wanted to highlight was how wonderful people can be in the face of such things. 

There was a Polish lady at the end of the ward who didn’t speak English and who tried repeatedly to engage with people with laughter with hand movements, but it’s difficult when you don’t know the language. Gradually, she became more subdued and more withdrawn. You could see the difference after three days her gestures became smaller and attempts to engage others stopped completely. Then, on the ward appeared a young doctor, not one of the ones who usually covered our medical ward, and he approached her bed and started speaking fluent Polish to her. It was wonderful to see her reaction at first incredulous and then this outpouring of words and sentences, talking excitedly. Her eagerness and happiness and opening of the floodgates was wonderful to behold. They chatted for about 10 minutes then he left. I wish he could’ve seen the lasting transformation his 10-minute visit meant to that elderly lady. It was one of those game changers and out of the sullen recluse emerged the chatty funny woman again.  

My next-door neighbour phoned to ask if I needed anything.  She was going abroad for a week but wanted me to know her husband was available for anything I needed. My other neighbour who lives opposite spotted me reversing out of our yard and ran over to ask about my relative in hospital.  Her concern was touching and she leaned in through my window and gave me a huge bone-crunching hug.  The neighbour on the other side stopped me on the pavement to present me with a huge cake yesterday.  It means so much to have kindness shown in difficult times.  I  make a mental note to be more attentive and responsive to those in need of kindness.

"Do not be content with showing friendship in words alone, let your heart burn with loving-kindness for all who may cross your path."

Abdu'l-Baha

Five minutes on a Post-it

A sweet American of mine friend died this week.  She was full of loving creativity and gentleness and was always kind and attentive. She was an art teacher and she created a haven of creativity in her class. The start of every lesson consisted of the same five-minute exercise every day. When the students entered they found a fresh small yellow little Post-it note stuck on each of their desks and every student had just five minutes to create their own masterpieces on this tiny insignificant square. 

In that five minutes of silence, felt tips, pens and pencils crafted gems, little beauties from out their souls. At the end of the exercise, she collected each post which had already been dated and signed by each author. These posts were carefully collected and kept in a folder with the student’s name. It meant she could not only view their work on that day but set it in context of a journey because it built up into a pile of posts in chronological order that allowed her to see the development of their craft. 

They were teenagers, full of angst, and on some days a student would simply colour in the entire square black, like a black hole only square. Or one frustrated student had covered the entire yellow Post-it note with the worst swear words they could muster. These had been scribbled with such intense force on the small paper that they could be read from both sides. Even these my colleague accepted because she could see them in context. Could see that a student that would colour in an entire Post-it note black one day could a month later produce the most exquisite bird drawing that quite took her breath away. 

Her acceptance of their output was unconditional but her careful collection and mounting them chronological order gave value to this creative output. She was able to make insightful comments on their report card because she could see the journey they’d been on with a broader sweep. For instance, she could spot after six months that the student had discovered three dimensions and perspective in a whole new light. It was only when she saw the Post-it notes one after another that she could really see the journey the student had been on and take pride in their achievement with them.  

Strangely how despair and distress of a student could become so apparent in such a short task.  The ones she really worried about were the odd student who left their Post-it blank and unused.  What was going on in their lives that even this tiny task was beyond them? It is rare now in the high-paced intensity and strict learning objectives of today’s teaching to give a student those five minutes of space to find themselves, to express themselves and to hone their craft. Teachers are often so busy stuffing students with valuable information that they can forget the root of the word educate is to ‘lead out’ not to put in. 

How clever she was to use this exercise to kickstart these student’s artistic engines and get them warmed up. Allowing them to find their voice in this tiny yellow window. Opening their eyes and hearts to all the infinite possibilities of choices in their lives. Reassuring them that there is always another day to hone your craft and that not even minutes should be wasted.  The passage of time was so short, just five minutes of their lives, that it screamed hurry, create, make, capture and learn more potently and urgently than the rest of the week put together.

I shall miss her dreadfully.  Even after she left Malta and returned to the States for cancer treatment she sent long lovely messages on WhatsApp about life.  She continued to paint and create right to the end.  In her own exhibition of art on Malta she gave the most moving presentation of her work I have ever encountered.  Speaking from the heart she mentioned her cancer, life and artistry with such sweet wisdom it awoke a spirituality in the audience.  It is rare to have such souls around.  One can’t be greedy and demand more time with such giants you just have to be so very grateful for the minutes with them you have been given.  

Grandchildren beat the heart alive

Grandchildren are the moist butter of life. 

They soak into the mundane existence 

and enrich life with flavour. 

Full of get up and go 

they inject energy into even old bones. 

They lubricate the seized-up thoughts of old age.

Stimulating thought and laughter 

their call for stories 

triggers your own forgotten creativity and joy. 

What can I say? 

This life is full of broken eggs and hurt, 

but this luscious butter 

beats the heart into a wonderful cake, 

soft, fragrant and fluffy. 

Baked with love it catches one’s breath 

and injects new life and laughter.