volunteerplaintalk

Category: bereavement

  • Michael

    Michael

    Do our volunteers connect us to those unexpected moments, the ones that last?

    Greg had volunteered to help Roy, the brother of one of our hospice patients. Roy’s brother had died and as the only living relative, it was Roy’s job to empty out his brother’s house. It was a hot summer afternoon and I left work early to stop by. “Can you use some help?” I asked.  Greg wiped the sweat from his face and said, “yes.”

    Some of the household items went to our thrift store, the bigger ones were given to neighbors and the rest were placed at the curb for trash pickup. As I was carrying a box to the street, I noticed Roy placing a plastic blow mold snowman in the pile. It must have been the way I studied the old Christmas decoration, because Roy looked at me and said, “would you like to have it?’

    I touched the snowman’s hat, the jaunty band of yellow circling the snow-covered brim. “I would if you don’t mind.”

    “My brother Michael loved Christmas,” Roy said wistfully and looked around at the remnants of his brother’s life scattered in so many directions.

    I lifted the snowman, taking in his smile. “If it is all right with you,” I said, “I’m going to name him Michael.”

    Roy nodded. The cars zipped by us, the garbage bags flapping in their wake.

    “And every year, I will bring him out, light him and I will say, Merry Christmas, Michael. Is that ok?”

    Roy put his hand on my shoulder. “I’d like that.” He touched the old plastic face, his fingers tracing a farewell of sorts. I carried the snowman to my car.

    **********

    Every holiday season, for more than 10 years now, I’ve brought out the snowman with the jaunty hat and lit him up.

    Merry Christmas Michael.

    -Meridian

    Have a very happy New Year.

  • Where Did The Light Go?

    light_001
    Dana died a week ago today. She had been battling lung cancer for the second time and finally succumbed to it at the young age of 67. She didn’t want to die but she had been told that it was inoperable, untouchable, unstoppable…. inevitable. Did she stop volunteering? No, not Dana.

    She had come to training about twelve years before and at first, I didn’t know what to make of her, because her real passion lay in saving animals. She always resided with up to 14 rescued dogs and cats at a time, and would  happily describe the tabby with paralyzed back legs or the silver muzzled terrier who was 16 years old. I wondered how she would do with Homo sapiens, but I was an idiot to have questioned her, because Dana loved her humans as much as she loved her animals and she particularly enjoyed working with terminally ill men who had dementia. She glibly refered to them as her “guys” and could chat about a patient who thought she was a maid with the same optimism she showed a frightened stray .

    But here’s the thing. Besides being a great volunteer, Dana was a much better person than I am. I have to be honest with myself. Being around her, I knew it, felt it, experienced it. She was endlessly optimistic, carved paths of human construction and the way she handled the end of her life stripped all my self motivational pats on the back right out of me.. I was comfortable enough with her to be able to ask questions the way she wanted me to, and to not get all mushy when she didn’t want that. Her recurring cancer was not the elephant in the room or on the phone, it was a piece of her just like her frizzy hair or her gestures when she described putting a kitten into the lap of a burly man who drooled.

    When she died, a blinding light left the room, leaving a dim void. But where did that light go? Was it extinguished or does it shine on? You see, I have to know, because I think of the people who saw her as “just a volunteer.” Did they have sunglasses on?

    So, to comfort myself, I contemplate all the animals and people, including the families and friends that Dana touched throughout her life. A ray of her light lives on in them. She lessened their burdens, supported their journeys and shared their pains.They are more whole because of her and can now shine a little brighter in their worlds.

    I have a ray of her light in me. Because of her, I want to be a better person and she illuminated the path. It’s a steep and twisting passage. It consists of gracious losing, really really being with people, letting negative emotions and “poor me” feelings go and not being overwhelmed by the minutia of it all.

    This path is daunting, and constant and exhausting, but if I reach out with my hand and feel Dana in the air, a wisp of that light will guide me and live on.

    -Meridian

  • Volunteering Ointment While the Wound Heals

     

    eagle

    I was reading this article on how volunteering helped a volunteer through her grief and it gave me this warm, familiar feeling, like the cracked and stained coffee cup I reach for every morning. It makes me think of all the volunteers with a story similar to this young woman’s who have applied volunteering as an ointment of sorts on their wounds while they heal.

    I think of Paul, whose beloved wife died so young. His gaping open grief was covered by a thin bandage of keeping busy. Helping others, focusing on someone else’s pain and being surrounded by kind people allowed him a chance to slather on the soothing volunteering ointment each time he came. And he stayed for almost ten years as the  ointment became less necessary, but more of a routine that he was used to and so so good at.

    I think of Judy, whose loss was long ago, but unresolved and ever fresh, who talked about the death of her son as though it had happened twenty minutes before. I think of how she instinctively avoided working with any clients, as though she knew her rawness would just get in the way. But while volunteering behind the scenes, she smeared herself in the listening ears of ever patient staff and volunteers who heard her pain and with encouragement, Judy sought out grief counseling.

    I think of Claire, who had been let go from a long-term and secure job. Her wound was to her psyche, and her face showed the lines of deep self-doubt. Every skill she possessed was slashed open, and each job rejection opened her wound again and again. Claire sought out volunteering like a lost pet who puts its nose against a stranger’s patio door in desperation. Her feelings of worth grew very slowly, but steadily until she shook the mantle of worthlessness and viewed each job rejection as a sign of the times. Eventually she gained employment and was more prepared to walk into her new place with confidence on the mend.

    It’s ironic, because each one of these volunteers was not “retained.” Each one of these “wounded healers” used volunteering as salve while delivering extraordinary work to the organizations they served.

    But they did not stay forever. Their retention lasted as long as the ointment helped them to heal enough that they did not need us anymore. Yes, they left not because we did not need them anymore but because they did not need us anymore.

    And just as we celebrate the release of a rehabilitated injured bird back into the wild, we can celebrate the fact that these volunteers were ready to fly. And we can take some solace in the fact that volunteering helped these wonderful hurting people begin to heal.

    So, should we continue to say that volunteer retention is our end game?  I don’t think so, because personally, I’ll take a soul on the mend over retention any day.

    -Meridian

  • “It’s Good to Remember, Remember With You”

    With his permission granted, I want to share a song written several years ago by Michael Becker, a talented singer and songwriter who strove to capture the connections volunteers make with folks suffering from dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. Mike spent many years not only volunteering with people at end of life but also inspiring new volunteers to follow their hearts.  I’ve been humbled witnessing Mike playing his song for patients, caregivers, family members and volunteers who quietly relate to that difficult journey through memory loss. As Mike says, “I’m just grateful to be able to share my experiences through my music.”

    Please enjoy

    -Meridian

     

     

     

  • First, Do No Harm

    dam breakingA prospective volunteer, Judy came to one of my orientations last month. She eagerly embraced the topics, participated in class and repeatedly told me how much she “owed” us for caring for her husband. She is passionate, ready to work and a strong woman. She and her husband owned a business that she now shares with her children. She has artistic abilities, is educated, well spoken and incredibly smart. She is that volunteer we dream about when we’re not having a nightmare that all the unfinished work has fused together into a giant smiling clown with a pillow and is suffocating us in our sleep. (You do have that dream, too, don’t you?)
    I spent a good two hours with her one on one in a private interview a week after classes ended. We talked about her abilities and talents, her ideas and plans to help and all the folks in her business circle she knows that she can enlist to help too. So, what could possibly be wrong with this perfect volunteer?
    Did you guess she’s moving? Nope. Did you guess she’s really crazy? Nope again.
    Although we spent time talking about all those wonderful things, we spent 90% of the time talking about her husband’s illness and death. He died four years ago and to our credit, we took wonderful care of him. Judy passionately talked about losing a husband so early in life, the shock, the quickness of the rare disease, the legal issues surrounding a business and a lone position in life with friends encouraging “getting back in the dating game.” She had already started a support group on Facebook, has reached out to the community for research funds and would love to be able to help other young widows. Her ideas are lofty, her desire to help of the highest noble thoughts. Her energy is infectious and I wanted to reach into my drawer and pull out my checkbook.
    Our conversation reminded me of John Walsh, the host of the TV show, “America’s Most Wanted.” Mr. Walsh began his crusade after his son, Adam was brutally murdered. It’s what experts call instrumental grieving, the throwing of oneself into a cause. It’s truly amazing to watch someone do that, to see their resolve, to feel their calling. These people are remarkable. They turn despair and tragedy into benefits for the rest of us. I know if my husband were to fall ill to that disease that took Judy’s husband, I would want her coaching me.
    But, I cannot, in good conscience, put Judy with patients, family members or the bereaved. It matters not that she really, really, really wants to help. It matters not that she is full of passion and energy. But it does matter that in the three times we’ve talked, everything always comes back to her experience.
    I’ve witnessed raw, unrelenting grief before. I’ve seen potential volunteers so fired up that they speak in a machine gun volley that shoots down every thought that does not apply to their situation. I’ve watched eager people grasp onto volunteering like a life-preserver in a sea of molten pain. I feel for them, because, just like every other volunteer, I get to know them and to know these volunteers is to know heartache. I so want to help them work through their grief, but my first loyalty is to the clients at hand. And they need volunteers who are sound, mostly healed, or at least healed enough to put aside their own lives.
    And so, as the conversation wound down, Judy looked at me and breathlessly asked, “do you think I can do this?”
    “Not yet,” I answered truthfully. See, I’ve learned over the course of so many years that it’s much kinder to be honest. Then I added, “I’m thinking that you will be wonderful with our patients and families one day and we are incredibly fortunate to have you. Right now, I hear some hurt and we don’t want this work to add to your hurt. You’ve been through so much.”
    “I know. It still hurts and I trust your judgement.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I just need to help.” I could see the dam about to break but she quickly stuck another emotional patch on the crack that threatened to burst.
    What a burden to trust me, I thought selfishly. I’m fallible, running on instinct and gut. I want to be wrong about you, to just let you come in and get whole again.
    Here’s where volunteer management is on a whole other level from standard HR. Just like HR, we have jobs to fill and we head hunt for the best people for the job. But we don’t reject people. We don’t pick and choose. We try to find a place for everyone, and it takes hard work to find places for everyone. I will find a place for Judy. We will start small and away from the clients. I want to see her succeed as a volunteer and to mend her deep wounds. It will take time, observation, mentoring and caution. That’s what I signed up to do.
    But first, I will do no harm, not to Judy and not to our clients.
    -Meridian

  • …Oh! One More Thing! I Need that Magic!

    memory bearLast week I just happened to be present when a brand new volunteer, Glenna was returning a memory bear she had made. Glenna has been volunteering for about six months now and is doing so because she is unemployed, looking very hard for another job and almost desperately wants to give back. Glenna is quiet, pounded by rejections and extremely talented.

    Memory bears, you probably know, are teddy bears sewn from articles of clothing a bereaved person chooses to represent the loved one who died. Bears are fashioned from bowling shirts, uniforms, blouses, event T-shirts, night-clothes and even baby blankets. They are soulful, oozing personality and cherished by the recipient.

    Glenna dropped off her freshly done bear and as I admired the pocket she had incorporated from the “Gilly’s Tavern” t-shirt on it, we chatted about the bear she had brought in the week before.

    It was a bear from an obviously well-worn  Bait Shop t-shirt. Glenna was telling me how her own father had loved to take her fishing when she was a little girl. He had died when she was only 15 and she wistfully talked about the time she caught a fish and dragged it up onto shore, her father laughing all the while. Glenna wiped a tear, apologizing for “taking up so much time” when the bereavement counselor, Sharon, walked in.

    I introduced Glenna to Sharon and Sharon thanked Glenna for making the memory bears. “Our clients just love them,” Sharon said and Glenna nodded.

    I could tell that Sharon was in a hurry, which was nothing new for a bereavement counselor. But bereavement counselors, I’ve found, have this aura about them that feels so, well…. kind.

    “Sharon,” I said, “before you have to run, Glenna is the volunteer that made the bear you just gave out, the fishing t-shirt bear.”

    “Really?” Sharon’s eyes lighted up. “I gave that bear to his granddaughter and I saw her last night in group and she told us this story. She took her bear home and that night brought it in bed with her. See, her grandfather was the one who raised her after her parents divorced. He loved to go fishing, and although she wasn’t very good or interested in fishing, she would go and watch him and read. Anyway, she had the bear with her and she had a dream. In that dream she and her grandfather were fishing by a big lake and she caught a fish and her grandfather turned to her in the dream and said,’ now see, I knew you could do it’. It was something her grandfather always said to her.”

    I could see Glenna’s eyes go wide and her mouth trembled, “that’s something my father always said to me.” She was crying now. (ok, me too). Sharon beamed.

    We can tell volunteers how meaningful their work is, but when their ears fill with real stories and examples, now that’s beyond volunteer management. It’s the magic of our job, the moment that we know exists, but we, as managers, well, we know to go looking for it and to stand back and let it happen.

    What do our volunteers need? Ahhhhh, many, many things. Sometimes recognition, sometimes socialization, sometimes to be left alone, and sometimes, they need a magic moment. Frankly, we need it too.

    -Meridian