Making Space

In my work, we make space.

We make empty spaces for others to safely place their grief. It sounds like we're magicians with secret formulas to bend physics and create like God creates. And, in a way this is true, although God does a far better job and God is much more patient.

Space is created and held during phone calls and bereavement counseling visits with very distressed human beings. In the physical space of the support group meeting the leader's speaking and silence indicate when the space is open to all and when it's being held for just one.

Although the space we create is empty, it collides with everything cluttering our worlds and demanding our attention. Grief is like our worst relative who rings the doorbell with all their luggage in tow demanding the entire house be theirs to use however and whenever they want. There is no longer space.

This is how I feel about my work and this is what I try to extend to everyone who crosses my path; however, within the actual physical walls of my working space this has become much harder. There is simply not enough desk space or conference room space for all the staff it takes to serve such a large census of hospice patients and families. If everyone were to come in at the same time, there'd be three staff to every desk. 

So, making space for our collective grief as hospice workers continues to be a challenge. Staff want and need a place to remember the dead, to place their pain; but that physical space hasn't existed for a very long time. However, a few days ago we claimed a wall and the corner of a conference room for this purpose.

The wall now holds a large, empty grapevine wreath and the corner has a small table with items for remembering, such as ribbons, slips of papers, and stones.

In order to set up this room we had to ask a nurse to relocate her "office" so we could clean and move tables. When I checked on the new arrangement late yesterday, she was back in there working with the door closed so she could take her mask off.

It was the perfect picture of how we keep going, keep doing our work, keep serving the living while our need to grieve and remember the dead is kept in the corner of a room where the door is literally closed.

Her choice is very understandable because it's quite uncomfortable to work in the office with a mask on, but it's required when others are around. Finding an empty space where the mask can be removed and a worker can be in silence is the ultimate. 

It'll be interesting to see how this goes -- if the various staff using this room as a private office will make space for their colleagues who need to engage in the grief ritual and vise versa.

This is another iteration of the ongoing struggle to make space for grief in a world that has to move so fast to meet so many heart wrenching demands. This has become the exhausting reality of healthcare workers since the pandemic began.

May each of us extend the little reservoir of space inside us to the next person we meet in need of compassionate sheltering:  Whether they be serving the living or remembering the dead.

This we can do.

This we can do.