Paying It Forward

I send you this missive as a holiday greeting. And I am grateful to each of you for being a part of my life and being a part of the lives of so many others who care for you and wish you well.

Sometimes we get so caught up in our own “stuff” that we forget how many people genuinely care for us, just the way we are. We don’t need our titles, our job descriptions, our social status, our economic well being, our awards and honors, to be loved and respected. Each of us inherently is good, caring and loving. Sometimes we lose track of that fact. Remembering that we are loved is probably the best gift that we could give ourselves. Seeing the goodness in others is the richest gift you could afford those around you.

Here is a little story about love and connection that was first published here in 2009.

My mother died on Valentine’s Day, 2007. She was buried with her parents and other family members at Oakwood Cemetery in Santa Cruz. When I visited the cemetery about a year later, my dad pointed out a sign on the cemetery grounds which indicated that a permit had been filed by the adjacent hospital to allow the creation of a large “overflow” parking lot in the center of the cemetery grounds, heretofore reserved for burials. I took down the numbers of the permit applicant and the county planning staff officer, intending to speak with them about the proposal the following Monday.

I made my calls, received some rather incomplete information from the applicant and county staff. Then I received a call from Randy Krassow who operates Santa Cruz Memorial, which manages Oakwood.

We had a good exchange concerning the proposal. But we also connected personally. I decided to send him a bound copy of the stories I had written concerning my experiences as a hospice volunteer at San Francisco’s Laguna Honda Hospital. What I originally had conceived of as “memorials,” to those that I had attended, evolved into meditations on my work as a caregiver and my re-awakening as a compassionate, caring being. I have found the stories to be a “bridge builder” between myself and others. I say things in story about me, and the way I have changed through my experience, that are hard to put forth in casual conversation.

A few days later I received an email from Randy:

Hey Tim, I had begun reading your essays “Lessons for the Living” last week and found myself constantly interrupted, so I decided to come down to my office today (Saturday), close my door, and read them in some solitude. …

I’m sitting in my office about 10:30 a.m. reading “Chloe’s Story” when our receptionist knocks on my door to tell me the Sheriff’s Coroner is on the phone and wants to talk to me. I pick up the phone and Naomi, the Sheriff’s Deputy, tells me she’s about 50 yards from my office along the San Lorenzo river where they’ve just discovered a body. They’ve found a guy (homeless parolee) dead in his tent. I immediately flashed back to the last paragraph in “Ben’s Story” … “No one should ever die alone, without a witness, without a companion.”

I thought about how, at any given time, there were about 20 of us within a few feet of where this person died and none of us even knew he was living there. I thought about how those working here are surrounded by the effects of death but are not around actual death. Yet, it took place a few feet away. And none of us knew. This person died alone.

But, it gets stranger. An hour or so later (I had finished your stories by then), the receptionist again knocked on my door to tell me that there was a couple sitting in our foyer for no apparent reason. I walked up to the front and found an obviously homeless young couple, backpacks and sleeping bags in tow, sitting on the overstuffed sofas in our lobby facing our very large decorated Christmas Tree. I asked them if I could help. They said they were just talking. The young man told me the Christmas tree reminded him of home and the piano reminded him of his grandmother. They obviously had no business here, other than getting out of the cold.

I thought about Chloe’s story, and the body that the coroner had just found below our offices. I told them to take their time, enjoy the tree and left them in peace. A bit later, they quietly left.

I’d like to think I would have done this anyway but I know that’s not true. We get a fairly steady stream of homeless coming through our facilities using the bathrooms in the mausoleum as public latrines and the sinks as personal showers. We always send them off quickly with a warning and a request not to come back or the police will be called.

This time, thanks to Chloe, and the unidentified man along the river, these two homeless young people were warm for awhile and had some time around a Christmas tree.

A lesson learned.

Thank you,

Randy

Chloe was a beautiful but mentally disturbed woman, dying of ovarian cancer, for whom I had the honor to care. As her death approached, Chloe bemoaned the fact that, because of her mental illness, she had lost custody of her infant sons from whom she had continued to remain estranged. She thought of herself as a terrible mother. She wanted to see her sons before she died, but she didn’t know where to find them. I had sat at the bedside with Chloe as she eventually found her own path to peace and reconciliation, discovering that “letting her boys go” was the best mothering she could have done.

Yet Chloe has done so much more than find her peace. She had inspired me, through her love, honesty and courage, to write her story and to record her profound impact on me which, through my writing, was transmitted to Randy, who visited Chloe’s grace on this homeless young couple sitting in a mortuary reception area in front of a Christmas Tree.

I have learned through my hospice work that if you look for goodness, you always will find it. Grace, giving and compassion put into action always land in the right place, a place which you may never know, at a time, you never might have expected. This is the time of year where we should be particularly mindful of our goodness, that of others, and our connection to all beings. Perhaps, with this simple shift in perspective you will pay something forward to another in need.

The hospital abandoned its plans for the parking lot. My father moved into Dominican Oaks, an elder facility, adjacent to the hospital and across the street from the cemetery, where, from his second floor apartment, he could see my mother’s grave. He was happy there. He spoke with my mother every day, upon rising, and every night, before going to bed. He died two years ago and now rests at her side.

I send you my thanks for your attention and my best wishes for your holiday season.