Sight of Hope

Back in the summer of 2024, I had started working at a palliative care home. When I had gone for my job interview, I remember setting foot into the building and being engulfed by a strong sense of serenity and tranquility. I could feel the softness and warmth of the sun through its wide and clear glass windows. Its vast clean space made it easy for any of its visitors to feel at home. The surrounding neighbourhood resembled that of the countryside; it was quiet and filled with trees. A strange thought occurred to me as I pondered over the nature of care given at such facility: I would want to die there. Not only is the physical environment enticing, but the free services offered to its clients (pet therapy, massage therapy, art therapy, music therapy, acupuncture, and social services) is honorable. Although the goal of my initial visit was to convince the managers I was ideal for the vacant position, it almost felt as if the home itself spoke to me and convinced me that “she” was the workplace fit for me.

When I took my first lunch break on the beautiful terrace, I remember hearing gospel music playing in one corner. There were two men, a father and a son, sitting next to each other listening carefully to the chants from the son’s cellphone. The father was one of the residents of the palliative care home. He wore sunglasses that made him look like a white-haired Ray Charles. I did not know him at the time, but I could recognize his beaming smile any day.

A couple of weeks later, I was assigned to be his nurse on night shift. During my rounds, Mr. H was sleeping soundly in his bed. I noticed red tapes stuck onto the walls near his bathroom and onto the edges of his bedside tables. I wondered what all that was about. When his bed alarm went off at a later point in the night, I went to see what he was up to. As I entered his room, Mr. H. was standing up setting aside the urinal he had just used. The urinal also had red tape on it. As I got closer to see if he needed help, I noted Mr. H.'s wide eyes. I introduced myself and asked if he was alright. Mr. H. spoke in a soft gentle tone. As we were talking, I realized that he rarely maintained eye contact. All of a sudden, my sleep deprived brain realized he was legally blind; however, he was still able to see vague shapes and colors. Hence, the red tape.

Mr. H. was a devote Christian. He would thank God on all occasions. As I further got to know him, I learned he was from Barbados. When I had mentioned my Filipino roots, Mr. H.'s face lit up. He then recounted tales of individuals at his church; it was located in a neighborhood densely populated by my fellow countrymen. He asked if I knew of that church. I confirmed I did indeed as it was the church I attended on occasion in my childhood. He expressed his love for the Filipino community and how Sister X or Brother Z treated him with so much kindness. He commended Filipinos for their family-oriented nature. He then recollected his fondness of our speciality foods like pancit and sinigang.

Mr. H. continued to share his gratefulness for God. Mr. H. stated, "I thank God for giving me the ability to "see". Even if I am blind, I can still "see" in a different way. The strength in my legs ... I don't know if you understand what I mean." As he uttered such words, he possessed a shine in his eyes that did proved his point. "I think I do understand", I replied wholeheartedly. As I helped him settle back into bed, he thanked me for my help. While leaving his room, I could hear him whispering under his breath, "Thank you, thank you God".

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I had not picked up shifts at the palliative care home until a few weeks later. When I returned, I learned during report that Mr. H. wasn't doing so well. His condition began declining quickly; he was extremely fatigued and could barely stand to use the urinals or the commode. The team had also stated that such physical limitations caused him much pain (physical and mental). He has had to resort to the use of diapers due to his low energy levels. His skin in his private areas began to macerate from his incontinence. It was sad to hear.

During the night, Mr. H. had called for a diaper change. As we uncovered his blankets, we realized the task at hand would require time and patience as his clothes and linens were soiled as well. We warned Mr. H. of our observations but reassured him we would get him cleaned up at his pace. Mr. H. appeared devastated but knew it had to be done. He sighed and winced during the cleansing of his skin and frequent repositioning. We tried as delicately and as fast as we could to put him back in a comfortable state.

Once done, Mr. H. became teary-eyed. "Once a man, twice a child", he whimpered.

He then went on to say words that left me speechless and heartbroken.

"Please nurses, pray for me. Pray that God will take me home. I cannot do this anymore. I pray that God will take me to see the Pearly Gates. I hope my time will come soon. It's so hard."

With tears rolling down his cheeks, I take a tissue and wipe them away. My colleague and I grasp on to his hands at each of his side. "We'll pray for you Mr. H", said my colleague.

"Oh thank you, thank you. I do not know if I'll see you in the morning, or in heaven. If God takes me, this will be my final goodbye."

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When returning to the nursing station, silence filled the air. I could tell my colleague was pondering on what had just occurred, just as I was. Mr. H. was a resident of the palliative care home for six months now. Usually, the eligibility criteria for admission to the home is a prognosis of less than three months. Mr. H. held on for three additional months more than expected. For the whole duration of his stay, Mr. H. fought. His spirit is still very much alive.

I can only hope Mr. H.'s suffering ends so that he may indeed see the long awaited Pearly Gates.

I pray for you.

Revelation 21:4: "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away"