Sunday, November 4, 2018

The Legacy of Loss: How Early Fears and Concepts about Death Shape Older Adults' Approaches to End-of-Life Concerns


The Legacy of Loss: How Early Fears and Concepts about Death Shape Older Adults’ Approaches to End-of-Life Concerns

Mae (not her real name) is 84 years old. She was only three years old when her mother died.  She doesn’t remember much about that experience except her mother saying, “Goodbye, my baby,” as Mae’s uncle held her close to her mother’s hospital bed.  Then, Mae was quickly taken away to live with her maternal grandmother.  She never set foot in her family home and she never lived with her father again.
Barely 12 years later, Mae’s world was rocked again…the only other caretaker she had ever known, her grandmother, died as Mae sat across the room and watched.  Her “Ma,” as she called her, insisted that Mae stay with her during her dying days, keeping vigil and attending to her needs.  Mae was thrust again into an unknown world that left her feeling vulnerable and unsafe.
Today, Mae sits in her recliner in her room at a local nursing home.  Four years now she has been alone…four years since her husband of almost 57 years died and left her with this legacy of loss.  She bravely smiles when asked how she is, and if someone mentions Carson’s name, a pained look crosses her face and is quickly replaced by stoicism.  It’s as though the memory of her life with Carson will envelop her and snuff her own life out.  It’s as though every loss she ever experienced is begging to be felt again and again and again.  It’s more than Mae can take.  So, she sits in silence, staring at her wedding ring, and pretends this legacy doesn’t exist.
Mae's early childhood and later experiences are not unique.  For many older adults, the death of close family members was an all too common occurrence during the first half of the 20th century.  Advances in medicine that we take for granted today were not yet available and death was an unwelcome and frequent visitor in many homes.  It hasn’t been that many years, relatively speaking, since the “deathbed scene” (DeSpelder & Strickland, 2009, p. 94) governed the way death and dying was approached in homes around the world (C. Corr, Nabe, & Corr, 2006; DeSpelder, 2009).  Death was a simple process, an accepted part of the cycle of life, and the purpose of the deathbed was not to delay death but to witness the end of a life well lived (C. Corr et al., 2006).
A cultural shift took place as the 20th century unfolded.  Death, according to DeSpelder and Strickland (2009), became “invisible” (p. 101).  No longer did families hold vigil beside their loved one’s deathbed; death occurred in sterile and disconnected environments such as hospitals and nursing homes (C. Corr et al., 2006; DeSpelder & Strickland, 2009).  The dying were separated from those who knew them best, and experienced perhaps their greatest challenge surround by individuals who “may be unaware of [their] personal interests, values, needs, and preferences” (C. Corr et al., 2006, p. 34).  Today, some older adults who transitioned through this cultural shift in the way death is approached fear their own dying process for this very reason (C. Corr et al., 2006).
Mae’s early experiences of death were associated with both the detached hospital death that separated her from her mother, and the more intimate home death of her grandmother.  For Mae, where the deaths of these important persons occurred was less important, though, than the experience of the death itself.  For even in the home death scenario, the “invisible death” (De Spelder & Strickland, 2009, p. 101) attitude prevailed.
No one in Mae’s family helped her understand her feelings of loss; no one acknowledged her pain or confusion over what life would look like now that her primary caregivers were gone.  Mae was swallowed up in the cultural concept that death should be handled by professionals, and families should move quickly through the bereavement process toward reintegration with society (C. Corr et al., 2006).  Mae was taught to simply accept death as a necessary part of the human experience, but she was not taught how to deal with the overwhelming sense of loss she felt.
This loss eventually became Mae's legacy…it was the driving force that shaped her decisions for the rest of her life.
Understanding the Experience of Loss
            For years, researchers have tried to understand the experience of loss.  Perhaps the most familiar explanation of the experience of loss is Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief. Kübler-Ross wrote a groundbreaking book titled, On death and dying, in 1969.  Her writing opened the door for new conversations about the process of dying and the experience of death.  In his foreword to the 2014 anniversary edition of Kübler-Ross’s seminal work, Ira Byock stated,
In a period in which medical professionals spoke of advanced illness only in euphemisms or oblique whispered comments, here was a doctor who actually talked with people about their illness and, more radically still, carefully listened to what they had to say (p. xii).
The crowning achievement of Kübler-Ross’s work was that she acknowledged individuals’ feelings about their impending death and gave them a voice to express their fears and concerns (Byock, 2014).  Kübler-Ross’s model became known as a “stage” theory, the first of many such theories to describe predictable patterns of emotions experienced by individuals experiencing grief, either for their own impending death, or the loss of a loved one (Stroebe, Schut, & Boerner, 2017).
            Kübler-Ross (2014) described the stages as a linear process in which the dying individual moved from feelings of shock and disbelief to a gradual acceptance of impending death.  Each stage has a specific function that protects the individual from overwhelming thoughts and feelings that accompany grief over impending or real loss (Kübler-Ross, 2014).
Kübler-Ross developed her model to give “voice to dying patients at a time when communication with them was often perceived by health care professionals as a ‘shameful waste of time’” (Burnier, 2017, p. 50).  The model was soon applied to anyone who was dealing with loss, and became a popular way to explain individuals’ reactions and behaviors when faced with a loved one’s death.
            Some scholars agreed with Kübler-Ross’s (2014) assessment of the stages of grief but recognized that individuals would not necessarily move to a subsequent stage of the grief process without ever going back to a previous stage (Stroebe et al., 2017).  However, for many years, the forward moving progression of Kübler-Ross’s stage theory was widely accepted.
Does everyone experience the stages of grief in the same way or in the same order?
The answer, simply, is:
NO
Not everyone agreed with or accepted the “stages of grief” model.  In fact, Wortman and Silver (1989) criticized stage models because they assume that every individual will experience every stage in a predicted order and will eventually recover or resolve the grief.
“It is generally assumed that although a person who experiences an irrevocable loss will go through a phase of intense distress, this will not last indefinitely.  In fact, after a relatively brief period of time, the person is expected to achieve a state of recovery and return to normal role functioning” (Wortman & Silver, 1989).
            As professionals continued to study grief, informed by their own experiences of loss and the experiences of others, newer explanations for the process of grief emerged. Most notably was Parkes’ model, which was based on the concept of attachment (C. Corr et al., 2006; Wright & Hogan, 2008). Parkes’ concept of grief looked more like this:

While intended to be an improvement on stage models of grief, the phase model proposed by Parkes has been criticized as a process of enduring the grief, and not as an active process by which the grieving individual works through the confusing emotions associated with grief (C. Corr et al., 2006). 
Phase theory has been described like a dirty car being pushed through an automated car wash. Yes, the car comes out clean, but the driver has little to do with the process of cleaning. In the same way, phase theory is used to describe grief as an event to “get through” so that on the other side of it, the individual can return to normal life again (C. Corr et al., 2006).
            The problem with both stage theories and phase theories is that they fail to take into account how the loss itself continues to impact the person who experienced the loss.  Worden (1996) examined the grief experience as a series of tasks.  These tasks may be re-visited at any time, and are always influenced by future events (Worden, 1996).  Worden drew his conclusion from his observations of children experiencing the death of a parent.  Drawing from child development concepts, Worden explained that children’s understanding of death and loss is based on their ability to grasp abstract concepts.
At age 3, Mae thought of her mother as being in another place, but still existing.
By age 15, when her grandmother died, Mae understood that death is permanent and changes the way those who are still living continue in life.

            Worden (1996) viewed the grief process as a never-ending cycle that begins again with every developmental change, every new stage of life.  As the grieving individual grows and changes over time, so does the individual’s grief response. Rather than being a process that is resolved, grief is a process of renegotiation (Biank & Werner-Lin, 2011). Worden’s tasks of mourning look like this:



As Mae grew, she imagined her life now with her mother and her grandmother alive.

·         What would it look like? Would they be proud of her? What would they look like? Would she look like them, act like them, talk like them?
And with each question, Mae’s understanding of her own life stages grew more cloudy.  She never saw her mother take care of her grandparents; she didn’t know what it was like to have her grandmother die a natural death after a long life. 
Without an example to follow, or someone to talk to about these important life passages, Mae grew to fear old age, to be scared of her own death.
Mae did not know that what she was feeling about the losses she had experienced was completely normal.  As one widow said,
‘Bill and I never talked about death. He always believed if we talked about it, one of us would die.’ They didn’t talk about death, but he died anyway at the age of 80. His widow was left with many things she had never told him and a deep sense of guilt to compound the pain of her grief. (Deits, 1992, p. 199)
Sharing the Legacy of Loss
            How can we help Mae as she approaches her own death in the coming years?  Is there anything we can do to share in her legacy of loss?  Davis-Berman (2011) said there is much we can do to help our elders face their fears about death.  Davis-Berman described the kind of distress Mae feels as death anxiety (p. 354).  Many elders cling to the notion that talking about death is off-limits.  Like Bill, they believe that to acknowledge death as a reality will hasten its arrival (Davis-Berman, 2011). 
Have a conversation
Davis-Berman suggested having a conversation with elders about their thoughts and beliefs surrounding death.  Some questions that might be asked include:
  •          How often do you have thoughts about your own death?  What do you think about?
  •          How often do you have thoughts about the deaths of others?  What kinds of thoughts do you have?
  •          How do you live your life as an older person with death as a possibility in the future?
  •          Do you think that death is easier or harder to think about and deal with as you grow older?
  •          Are you more or less afraid of death as you grow older?

Talk about what the end should look like
            Don’t be afraid to have a conversation with your older loved one about their desires and wishes for end-of-life care.  Talking with individuals about end-of-life care is a well-supported practice that reduces anxiety, depression, and fear about the process of dying (Van Scoy et al., 2017).  If starting a conversation about death feels awkward, try playing a game that invites discussion about end-of-life care.  One such game is called, Gift of Grace. You can learn more about it or order it here: http://www.mygiftofgrace.com/.  The game involves a series of questions that can be used as conversation starters to help families learn what their loved ones want most as they age and prepare for death (Van Scoy et al., 2017).  These important conversations will facilitate ethical and respectful care at a time when our emotions may influence the types of decisions we make for our loved ones as they near death. Types of questions include:

Here are a few comments from those who have used The Gift of Grace (Common Practice, 2016; Van Scoy et al., 2017) to help start important conversations with their family, their patients, and their staff:
“My Gift of Grace has been wonderfully effective at Mercy – beyond our expectations. We are using the game as a conversation starter in a variety of settings, ranging from physician offices, to inpatient ICU, to area classrooms. The game is a non-threatening, fun way to start a conversation around goals, expectations, and directions of treatment.” – Robert, M.D. (Common Practice, 2016)
“I loved that some family members were very humorous and others very sincere. Playing the game was really a sweet time together. Some people in my family were excited to play, some were hesitant. But thanks to those Thank You chips, we were able to have a good time and a good conversation. – Andrew, hospital chaplain (Common Practice, 2016)
“This game is not only valuable to the clients we serve, to facilitate effective communication between caregivers, but it is also a valuable tool to open up dialogue between family members. I played the game with my own father who is dying of emphysema. It was easier for me to say to my dad—”hey let’s play a conversation game” versus “let’s talk about this heavy topic of death.” He is totally up for a game. When I start reading the poignant, excellently communicated questions it just gives me goose-bumps because this concept really touches my heart, and my life’s work to bring death communication out into the open. Every family should add this to their game collection.” – Sherry, family member (Common Practice, 2016)
Above all, always seek to understand elders through the lens of their legacy of loss.  We must be continually aware that what we may see as a minor occurrence – a lost favorite hairbrush, for example – is filtered through the elder’s life experiences of loss; her possessions, her friendships, her closest relationships are one by one being taken away and she re-negotiates her legacy of loss with each new experience of loss.  “Grief becomes a primary context within which [a] child’s development occurs.  Loss becomes integrated into the [individual’s] core self at each stage of development…reworking the [loved one’s] life and death are not evidence of pathology,” (Biank & Werner-Lin, 2011) but an outflow of the individual’s great ability to renegotiate and integrate their loss into their life.
Soon, Mae will experience the final separation from this world; she will release her hold on the present and cross into the afterlife to join her husband, her grandmother, and her mother.  She doesn’t have to walk this final road alone.  Take her hand, experience her legacy of loss, and share hope with her.
References
Biank, N. M., & Werner-Lin, A. (2011). Growing up with grief: Revisiting the death of a parent over the life course. OMEGA – Journal of Death and Dying, 63, 271-290. doi:10.2190/OM.63.3.e
Burnier, D. (2017). A battle of words. Journal of Palliative Care, 32, 49-54. doi:10.1177/0825859717717154
Byock, I. (2014). Foreword to the anniversary edition. In E. Kübler-Ross, On Death and Dying (Anniversary ed.; pp. xi-xv). New York, NY: Scribner.
Common Practice. (2016). My gift of grace: Testimonials. Retrieved from http://www.mygiftofgrace.com/testimonials
Corr, C. A., Nabe, C. M., & Corr, D. M. (2006). Death and dying, life and living (5th ed.). Belmont, CA: Thomson Wadsworth.
Davis-Berman, J. (2011). Conversations about death: Talking to residents in independent, assisted, and long-term care settings. Journal of Applied Gerontology, 30, 353-369. doi:10.1177/0733464810367637
Deits, B. (1992). Life after loss: A personal guide dealing with death, divorce, job change and relocation (Revised ed.). Tucson, AZ: Fisher Books.
DeSpelder, L. A., & Strickland, A. L. (2009). The last dance (8th ed.). New York, NY: McGraw-Hill.
Kübler-Ross, E. (2014). On death and dying (Anniversary ed.). New York, NY: Scribner. (Original work published 1969).
Stroebe, M., Schut, H., & Boerner, K. (2017). Cautioning health-care professionals: Bereaved persons are misguided through the stages of grief. OMEGA – Journal of Death and Dying, 74, 455-473. doi:10.1177/0030222817691870
Van Socy, L. J., Green, M. J., Reading, J. M, Scott, A. M., Chuang, C. H., & Levi, B. H. (2017). Can playing an end-of-life conversation game motivate people to engage in advance care planning? American Journal of Hospice & Palliative Medicine, 34, 754-761. doi:10.1177/1049909116656353
Worden, J. W. (1996). Children and grief: When a parent dies. New York, NY: Guilford Press.
Wright, P. M., & Hogan, N. S. (2008). Grief theories and models: Applications to hospice nursing practice. Journal of Hospice and Palliative Nursing, 10, 350-356. doi:10.1097/01.NJH.0000319194.16778.e5

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

My Beloved Piano - A Trusted Friend (written in 2016)

Excuse me while I get sentimental for a moment. As long as I can remember, my family's Bradbury piano has been a part of my life. I found a picture today of my brother's 4th birthday in 1966 (the year I was born) and in the background was our piano. My earliest memory of this special instrument is from about age 2. Mom would give Kirk and me a penny each and let us walk next door to the little country store so we could buy a sleeve of Smarties candy. We would take our little treasure back home and Kirk would pull out the piano bench. We would kneel at the bench and sort out our Smarties, pretending they were medicine and we were counting them like our Uncle Rena did in his pharmacy. 
I cannot remember a time when our piano was not used - it seems as though it was played every day for many years. Dad would sit down and chord his way through, "Jesus, Hold My Hand," and Mom would serenade me to sleep at night while practicing her Czerny School of Velocity exercises. Many days Kirk and I would sit at the piano and pretend to play while singing our favorite childhood songs (Though I'm Just a Tiny Tot; Stop and Let Me Tell You). When I was about 5, Mom began teaching me to recognize the piano keys and started showing me how to read music. I was entranced! I would sit for hours looking at music, figuring out how to read it, and how to plunk out the melodies with my right hand. How I wanted to learn to play piano!

As we got older, Mom and Dad would gather us around the piano. Mom would play and sing soprano, Dad would sing tenor, Kirk tried his best on bass, and I attempted to learn the alto line, as we sang, "I Will Meet You in the Morning." Those were happy days, and the musical impressions they made on me were deep and lasting.

When I was 9 I finally was able to take piano lessons, and from then on, our Bradbury piano was MINE. I played every day (ok - not EVERY day, as my piano teachers can testify), but I played more days than I did not. Kirk learned to play piano, too, but he was more successful with playing by ear, while I took the more classical route. When Close Encounters of the Third Kind came out in 1977 our family made a trip to see it in the theater. Kirk could hardly wait to get home so he could sound out the tones of the spaceship's call on the piano. I was amazed - how could he figure that out? I vowed to develop my musical ear so that I could play the piano without music, too! Over the years I worked very hard on our family piano to figure out melodies and learn to play using chords.

The family piano was a source of happiness, but also created a certain amount of anxiety and tears for me through the years. Difficult passages in my piano pieces (i.e. Sleigh Ride, which I still cannot play to this day) were rehearsed over and over, sometimes with no positive result. I spent many hours at the piano rehearsing voice lessons, learning songs for church, and even attempting to compose my own pieces. I worked diligently on theory assignments during high school, and played around with all the new sounds I was learning about in class. Perhaps the hardest times at the piano, and the times I felt most connected to my instrument, were the days and nights when Dad would train me in accompanying a soloist. The piano keys were soaked with tears on many occasions. But, those trials and tears and frustrations have made me the accompanist I am today. No more anxieties - I can follow just about anyone and handle any unexpected twist the performer might take with the music.

In high school, my piano became my personal therapist. When I was angry, or sad, or pensive, I would sit with my piano, and allow its soothing tones to wash over my heart, and calm my spirit. I came to treasure those times, and to take comfort in the always present instrument. Often, I would reach out and caress my friend, or play a few notes as I walked by. My piano was my friend, my confidant, and my safe haven.

My old Bradbury piano holds 50 years of memories for me. It connects me to Mom and Dad with ties as strong as the strings attached to its keys. The hammers and dampers, the pedal, the keys, the frame all remind me of sweet and special times with both of my parents. It was at that piano bench that my love of music took root, was watered, and blossomed into a lifelong relationship.

For the past 30 years, since I left home, my piano has stayed with my mom. First in Kansas City, then in her home in Hillsboro, I still played it every time I came "home." Heather played her first notes on that piano, as did Aaron. Kirk and I would sit down and play our old duets together at Christmas time. I would pull out my old music when I came home and play for hours, relishing in the reconnection with my old friend.

When Mom and Dad moved to their apartment in 2008 we made the decision to let the family piano be enjoyed by Heather. It was already worn out, out of tune, and showing signs of age. But, the action was still good, and it still felt comforting to sit down and caress the keys. For the last 8 years, Heather has enjoyed having our family piano in her home, and I have enjoyed seeing it when I go there, knowing it is still providing pleasure for another pianist.

Today, I said goodbye to my old piano as I've always known it. We've known for some time that when Heather found a piano in better shape, we would let the Bradbury rest and repurpose it into several heirlooms that our family can enjoy for 50 more years. Today was that day. I did not expect to have such an emotional reaction to the dismantling of my faithful friend. But there I sat, in the truck on the way to Heather's house, bawling my eyes out. I could hear Dad playing with his sing-song chords, I could hear Mom practicing her scales, I could see myself with all my lesson books spread out in front of me, and I could feel the anticipation Kirk had the day he sounded those eery tones - "Re Mi Do Do So." I felt again the longing to sit at my piano and play my cares away. I longed to practice with Dad just one more time - promising myself that I wouldn't let my frustration with his rubato style move me to tears. I wanted to fall asleep just one more time to the soothing sounds of Mom playing on the other side of the wall of my bedroom. And just once, I wanted to sing again with the strong tones from my piano accompanying me.

But...I couldn't do those things. So, I dried my tears and did what had to be done, and I said goodbye to my piano, but not to the memories it holds. And now, when I look at the shelf, or table, or wall hanging that is made out of its pieces, I'll remember that though the family piano is no longer playable, its song lives on in each of us, and we are richer for having it in our lives all these years.

My 1:1000

You just don't know how your life will impact others. She started her teaching career in 1973, a career that would span 45 years. During that almost half a century of teaching, she probably had 1,000 or more students. Who was I, a little girl in her 2nd class ever, a little girl in the 3rd grade, to think that I would be 1:1000? Who was I to think that she might remember me 10, 20, even 44 years later?
I was in awe of her. I can't tell you exactly why, but she became my favorite teacher, the one whose name I always use when asked that "secret" question. Maybe it was because she was beautiful and I was drawn to her loving and kind face. Maybe it was because her husband would come visit and I thought he was so handsome. Maybe it was because she inspired me to be better, to strive for excellence. Perhaps the times she allowed me to "help" her by grading spelling tests or marking papers, influenced me to teach someday, or maybe it just made me feel connected to her. Perhaps it was the way she handled the death of our classmate, Bobbi's, mother, gently explaining to us what Bobbi might be like when she came back, how we might most help her, and assuring us that we did not need to be afraid.
I don't know if she remembers any of this. If she does, I'm in awe again. If she remembers the details from her 1974-75 class like I do, then she is truly the special teacher I thought she was then, and still admire today. But, I know she doesn't remember this - because I never told her. I took her school picture and placed it in my little wallet where I could see it any time I wanted. You see, in the Spring of 1975, my world was changing. My father was contemplating taking another pastorate and moving our family out of Kansas City. My brother and I were not happy; we were scared. We did not want to leave our home, our school, and our friends. I kept her picture close because I believed then, as I do now, that she really loved me and that she wanted the best for me. During the summer after 3rd grade, as we waited in a cabin in Colorado for the decision of a new congregation, I pulled out her picture over and over, and I cried because I would never have another chance to see her again (or so I thought). I cried because the teacher who had made the most impact on my life to that point was now a piece of my history. But, her smiling face was there comforting me, even as I moved. She became the standard by which every other teacher in my life was measured. No one ever quite reached her place in my heart, and she remains to this day, my favorite teacher.
Why today? Because what grade school teacher do you know, in a large city, with many other children to love and pour into, shows up at your wedding 10 years later? And of all the people who attended our celebration that day, who should the photographer get a candid picture of going through the food line but her? A memory seared in my heart forever. She still cared; she still wanted the best for me. Her belief in me never wavered, even though I was only 1:1000.
The miracle of Facebook is that after all these years, I can still see her smiling face. I can still visit with her - or not - and that's ok. She remains a constant in my life, and she probably never even knew that she was my constant in the first place. I still have that little school picture of her. It no longer sits in my wallet or hangs on my bulletin board as it did when I was growing up, but it's always where I can find it. And it always reminds me that you never know how your life will impact others.
Live well. Invest in children. Give freely of your love and patience and guidance. Who knows who is watching you and gaining strength from you? Who knows whose life you will impact? Thank you, Sheila Cohenour - you are my 1:1000.