"work is love made visible... and to love life through labor is to be intimate with life's inmost secret."
-taken from the prophet by kahlil gibran
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
the art of listening
It's 11:38am, 22 minutes until lunch and my stomach is rumbling. I'm running late to my next treatment session which will be focusing on solving my patients insomnia. I've asked him to think about a good night sleep verse a bad night sleep and the type of day that leads up to each. Upon arriving to his room, I see that he's asleep. Seems silly to wake him to talk about his sleeping or lack thereof, however, allowing him to sleep through our therapy time won't really get to the bottom of his insomnia.
He awoke grouchy and slow moving. I knew we needed a quiet place to talk, despite the temptation of saving time by staying in his room and battling with the bells and beeps of the unit. He's not too thrilled either to be leaving now 10 minutes before lunch, but I have a hunch that this what we need to do.
So we pull up to a quiet section in the simulated living center, he's in his wheelchair and I'm sitting in the red restaurant booth. I ask, "Did you think about your sleep? What do you think makes the difference between a good night's sleep and a poor night's sleep?" He's missing his hearing aides, so I have to repeat the question. My patience is wearing thin. His response is slow and I'm holding myself back from giving him the answer. "Stress."
"There's a reason why I can't sleep at night. I can't turn off my mind. It runs through a million thoughts. You see I didn't really have a good life." He went on to tell me about his horrific childhood- stories of terrifying abuse. How his mother left him crying in a crib for 3 days until his grandmother found him with his head stuck between the rails of the crib. How his father stomped on all of their Christmas gifts one year for twenty minutes in a fit of rage. How his mother wrote him out of her will just weeks before her death after they had finally reunited and begun to stabilize their relationship. How his father convinced him to leave the Navy and come work for the family business, but then underpaid him so much that he could barely afford to put food on the table. It was sickening to hear, but I know that he had to tell me. I could tell by the sound of his voice that just by speaking these injustices out loud he was beginning to free himself of them. I could almost see the weight being lifted off his back.
I didn't offer him any advice. I merely listened and supported him through the telling. I offered him a place to be heard. And it was in hearing himself say something that I believe he really began to heal... "When I asked my mother, 'Why'd you do it?' She simply responded, 'I didn't know any better." He held back tears, obviously still hurt by her answer. Then later in the conversation he said to me, "I didn't lead a very good life myself. I drank. I divorced my wife. I cheated. I gambled. But now I think I'm ready to go back to the people I've hurt and tell them, 'I'm sorry but I just didn't know any better." I smiled and pointed out to him that that was exactly what his mother had said to him. The revelation shook him. He paused for a moment and it began to sink in. "Now can you forgive her?" I asked. "Yeah, I think I just did."
By the end of it, he couldn't thank me enough and said he immediately felt much better. He admitted that at first he was annoyed at my insistence of going to another room, but he also admitted that now he thinks he was finally going to get a good night's sleep. When we got back to the room both the nurse and the respiratory therapist made remarks about how good he looked, "You must be close to going home?" "I am." He said as he winked at me.
He awoke grouchy and slow moving. I knew we needed a quiet place to talk, despite the temptation of saving time by staying in his room and battling with the bells and beeps of the unit. He's not too thrilled either to be leaving now 10 minutes before lunch, but I have a hunch that this what we need to do.
So we pull up to a quiet section in the simulated living center, he's in his wheelchair and I'm sitting in the red restaurant booth. I ask, "Did you think about your sleep? What do you think makes the difference between a good night's sleep and a poor night's sleep?" He's missing his hearing aides, so I have to repeat the question. My patience is wearing thin. His response is slow and I'm holding myself back from giving him the answer. "Stress."
"There's a reason why I can't sleep at night. I can't turn off my mind. It runs through a million thoughts. You see I didn't really have a good life." He went on to tell me about his horrific childhood- stories of terrifying abuse. How his mother left him crying in a crib for 3 days until his grandmother found him with his head stuck between the rails of the crib. How his father stomped on all of their Christmas gifts one year for twenty minutes in a fit of rage. How his mother wrote him out of her will just weeks before her death after they had finally reunited and begun to stabilize their relationship. How his father convinced him to leave the Navy and come work for the family business, but then underpaid him so much that he could barely afford to put food on the table. It was sickening to hear, but I know that he had to tell me. I could tell by the sound of his voice that just by speaking these injustices out loud he was beginning to free himself of them. I could almost see the weight being lifted off his back.
I didn't offer him any advice. I merely listened and supported him through the telling. I offered him a place to be heard. And it was in hearing himself say something that I believe he really began to heal... "When I asked my mother, 'Why'd you do it?' She simply responded, 'I didn't know any better." He held back tears, obviously still hurt by her answer. Then later in the conversation he said to me, "I didn't lead a very good life myself. I drank. I divorced my wife. I cheated. I gambled. But now I think I'm ready to go back to the people I've hurt and tell them, 'I'm sorry but I just didn't know any better." I smiled and pointed out to him that that was exactly what his mother had said to him. The revelation shook him. He paused for a moment and it began to sink in. "Now can you forgive her?" I asked. "Yeah, I think I just did."
By the end of it, he couldn't thank me enough and said he immediately felt much better. He admitted that at first he was annoyed at my insistence of going to another room, but he also admitted that now he thinks he was finally going to get a good night's sleep. When we got back to the room both the nurse and the respiratory therapist made remarks about how good he looked, "You must be close to going home?" "I am." He said as he winked at me.
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