Hospice Story: Working With Rage

It was a weekend, and I was the only nonmedical hospice team member available. There had been a call about a patient who was in a nursing home, raging uncontrollably, who had pushed away anyone who tried to help. I thought to myself, This sounds like spiritual pain. I volunteered to go see him; his name was Eric. When I walked into his room, there was already a team of people there trying to switch out his mattress to a more comfortable one. Eric looked to be in his fifties, normal weight, and still quite muscular. He was shouting and swearing at everyone.

I watched while the caregivers, nurses, and doctors tried their best to make him comfortable. He was having none of these people’s good intentions. I tried to introduce myself but barely made eye contact, and he showed no interest in my identity as a member of the team. I didn’t get a sense that he understood my role as a listener and possible companion on his journey. 

I decided to try something different. I had been inspired by Frank Ostaseski, of the Zen Hospice House in San Francisco, in what I called his sit-and-wait method of administering to the dying. He would sit quietly in a corner of the room until the dying person became curious about his presence and asked a question of him. This is what happened.

Everyone eventually left the room after asking Eric if there was anything else they could do for him. Eric swore at everyone to get out and leave him alone. I took a chance and sat in a corner by his feet. I did not want to be seen for fear he would insist that I leave too.

I observed him flailing from side to side, shouting out for help. But moments previously he refused to take any medication, to be re-positioned, or to accept any other offers of comfort. Now I stayed to watch to see if he would accidently throw himself off the bed. I was hopeful I Would I be quick enough to prevent such a fall.  

I began by whispering a guided relaxation meditation starting at his head going down his body with a gentle invitation to release any tension or give more ease to how he was holding his body. 

As I sat and watched him, out of the corner of my eye, I followed with a recitation of spiritually uplifting words. In a very quiet voice I kept recycling verses. The order is not important. I just let my heart and mind pick the messages. It went something like this:

Eric, you are loved and cared about by many people: your parents, all the caregivers that surround you, and by the natural world. You are loved no matter what you may or may not have done in your life. Your inherent nature is good, powerful, and appreciated. You have always been and are still loved, whether you can connect with this idea or not.  

May you have the commitment to know what has hurt you, to allow it to come close to you, and in the end, to become one with you.

I also led him in additional loving kindness and compassion meditation. 

May you be safe and protected from all inner and outer harm. May you be happy, peaceful, and calm. May you be healed. May you live with ease and joy. May you accept yourself just the way you are. 

You are forgiven, please forgive yourself. You are forgiven, please forgive yourself.

It’s okay to release any holding in the mind or body. You are free, you are free.  

I must have run through these various phrases and spiritual repertoire for at least half an hour. I was speaking softly so as to not give Eric anything to rail against. When I would glance over at him, I noticed that his body was less restless as it moved increasingly toward stillness. His flailing arms came to rest on his stomach, and he became very calm.

It appeared that he finally fell asleep. That had been what I had hoped would happen. I barely looked at Eric as I walked out of the room, so as not to disturb him. I spoke with the staff at the nurse’s desk, asking them to check on him in fifteen minutes. 

When I got back to the office, I found out that Eric had died sometime before that fifteen-minute check on him. I realized he might have died while I had been with him.

The nurses at the nursing home had called to let the family know of Eric’s death, and that he had been very restless and angry before he died. I had also learned that the family had stopped visiting him because he had been so angry, spewing swear words at them.

I also called the family, I wanted them to know that their son had died relaxed and calm. Eric’s mother answered, thanking us for all we did. She told me that Eric had been that way all his life. As a boy as early as ten years old he would sneak out of the house and sleep in the woods. He would disappear for days on end as a teen and young man. He seemed to always be angry at someone or something. I told her that I had spent the last half-hour with him and he had finally found peace.

When I reflect back on this experience, I was doing the only I could do, which was to offer unconditional love. I felt like an instrument of Spirit that day. It still gives me shivers every time I think of Eric. His suffering was now over.