Hospice calling: will you serve?

I got a call this week from the local hospital's hospice grief counselor, responding to a message I'd left on her phone. I'd seen an ad in the paper about her counseling sessions for children affected by the loss of a loved one, and called to ask if she could incorporate any of my therapy animals into the program. She thought the kids' program would not be the place for us, as it was just a short series of meetings, but was excited to know that we were available, and asked if we would be interested in working in the hospice wing of the hospital. I, in turn, was thrilled at the invitation. I want to learn as much as I can about all aspects of animal therapy.

Some people don't like the idea of spending time with folks who are terminally ill, but I've had several of our "visitees" at the nursing and rehab center (we visit monthly) pass away between our visits, and I'm just glad we were able to bring some happiness into their last days on earth. I know nothing we can do will heal their bodies, but something about hugging and stroking a furry ball of unconditional love is very healing to the heart, soul and mind. If I were very ill, I would want the comfort of my dogs and cats lying on the bed with me. I'm glad I've been given the opportunity to share them with others.

Flashback: On our first visit to the nursing and rehabilitation center, Toby and I visited in the "memory wing," the part of the facility for residents with Alzheimer's disease and other forms of dementia. We were accompanied by the assistant activities director, whom I will call "Emmie" for this blog. Toby (my Sheltie), Emmie and I entered the room of a tall, frail woman, who lay fully clothed in her bed, staring at the TV. Emmie told me that "Janet" (another alias) had stopped responding to people months ago, and would not talk. When Janet saw Toby, she became animated and verbal. I pulled a chair up to Janet's bedside and had Toby jump into it and sit beside her. Janet sat up and began to pet Toby with her long, skeletal fingers. She told Toby what a pretty dog he was, that he was a good dog, and how much she liked him. She smiled and caressed his soft coat.

I looked up at Emmie, and saw tears in her eyes as she watched Janet and Toby. She had wanted for so long to somehow reach this woman, and the quiet presence of a dog had finally gotten through the fog of Janet's dementia and touched the person inside.

Toby and I visited the next month with Janet, with the same response. The month after, another woman was in her bed, and I learned that she had passed away soon after our last visit. I should have been sad, but the knowledge that Toby had helped her to become herself again for even just a few minutes was a source of joy for me. I only wish that her family had been there to see her talk and enjoy Toby's company for those fleeting bits of time before her death. They would have found comfort in those moments.