The New Social Worker Vol. 20, No. 1, Winter 2013 | Page 19
about him whenever I passed by the
thought about how much he’d loved his
narrow dirt road leading into the woods
little home out in the woods and how
that wound to his secluded little fortress.
tenaciously he’d worked to stay there. I
Sometimes I felt relief that I’d never see
thought about him being in an unfamiliar
him again. At other times, I had a sense
place surrounded by strangers, coming in
of dread that sooner or later, he’d be
and out of those mysterious states of conback.
sciousness that can emerge near death,
On the morning I saw his name
and not knowing where he was. Part of
once again listed under the previous
me actually wanted to see him, if only so
day’s new admissions, I swallowed hard.
he’d see a familiar face. I decided to go
He’d been transferred from the hospital
back the next day and try again. So what
to our inpatient facility for additional
if he threw me out?
symptom management before going
The visit was to be our last. I walked
home, presumably in a few days. I
in, and Jack was awake. He smiled wide
played out various scenarios in my head
and held out both arms as if to hug me.
through which I might get him assigned
My first thought was that he was conto another social worker. All such plotfused. “Hi, Jack. Remember me?”
ting was, of course, futile. Images of the
His smile broadened (something
angry ogre hurling boulders and shoutI’d never seen before), and he said, “My
ing obscenities floated through my mind.
social worker.”
I was certain more trouble lay ahead.
He clasped my hand and continued
Since there was a social worker at
holding it throughout the visit as I sat
the facility, I put off visiting for a couple
beside the bed. “I feel so much better
days. When I finally went looking for
now that you’re here,” he said.
him, Jack was coming in and out of con
Masking my surprise, and wondersciousness and having periodic confuing if he was being sarcastic or setting
sion. Chances were good he would never
me up, I asked him about what had been
make it home. He was sleeping that day,
going on recently.
and I did not wake him up. I walked out
“It’s been a hard time.” His eyes apthe door thinking I was1off1/28/11 2:48 PM peared to water slightly, “I think I might
the hook.
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Page 1
I could leave and not return. Then I
be dying.”
No secretiveness, no defensiveness,
no complaints, no blame or attacks.
Tucked into the bed where he’d soon
die, he was no longer fighting to stay
home, no longer fending off threats,
real and imagined, to the safe little lair
in the woods with the alarm system
and security cameras. His memory and
concentration were taxed, and he had
a hard time finding words, but slowly,
methodically, Jack searched for language to describe and process what he
was experiencing.
At one point, he lost his train of
thought but somehow managed to make
a humorous play on words. When he
grinned, I cracked a joke. To my utter
amazement, he started laughing harder
than I’ve ever heard any patient in his
shape laugh. His laugh was so genuine
and infectious I couldn’t help joining in,
and before long, there we were, two guys
sitting in a hospice room holding hands
and laughing so hard I thought Jack
was going to need oxygen. The waves
of laughter continued. Each time they
started to subside, one of us would crack
another joke and begin another cascade.
The theme of all these jokes was fundamentally the same—what a strange and
crazy thing it is to be human, and thus,
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The New Social Worker
Winter 2013
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