DIY Hospice

One morning a couple of weeks after concluding my new neighbor’s bathroom fan was not a problem, while I was meditating, my living room became increasingly permeated with the heinous odor of flowery shampoo. I got angrier and angrier as the moments passed. I was thinking, as no doubt did the Buddha on the very night of his enlightenment, “I hope the timer goes off soon so I can give this person a piece of my mind!"

(When I was in music school, one of my classmates was an extremely funny fellow named Jason, who sat behind several of us trumpet players one day at a recital and remarked cheerfully that he could smell our “heinous odors.” Such a good phrase.)

When my little clock beeped, I strode into the bathroom calling, “You with the fan!” However, since she did have the fan on and also her blow dryer, she couldn’t hear me, which was just as well. I composed another letter, fairly brief, letting her know I don’t like the humid air blowing into my place, nor the long dark hairs (yuck), nor the sound, nor the ghastly stench, sometimes of perfume and sometimes of charred dead animals (cooking smells).

But, again, I delayed delivery of this letter and composed a list of all my options, ranging from the far-fetched to the near-fetched:

—Move.
—Live with it.
—Burn her building entirely down to the ground; mine would probably go up, too, but you have break a few eggs to make an omelet.
—Contact an attorney immediately.
—Write a nasty letter.
—Write a friendly note in longhand on a card with art on the front.
—Close my window.
—Keep my bathroom door mostly closed.

After deliberating, I decided to choose from among the final three options. Closing my window—go figure—works perfectly, but why should I have to blah blah blah? But it also seems that just keeping my bathroom door almost all the way closed when I’m not in there does the trick, too; at least, I haven’t smelled her shampoo since I started doing that.

I have decided that cooking a big pot of pre-soaked grains is not a good plan, after all; I don’t think they’re any more digestible than anything else, it’s a certain amount of work, and I end up eating them cold most days, unless I want to reheat them, in which case why don’t I just cook rolled oats from scratch each morning and have oatmeal with fresh fruit, walnuts, and a dollop of agave nectar? That is my new plan.

I also am not ready to turn my back on bread, but I am going to hold off on the stand mixer for the time being. I made another couple of loaves recently and experimented with a different kneading technique, which still caused shoulder pain, but not as much. Next I want to make olive bread

I have a new hospice visitee, but I’m not scheduled to meet her until tomorrow. In the meantime, I received an email from a Buddhist list saying that a woman whose husband is dying of brain cancer wanted someone to come and meditate with them. It’s quite a lousy situation: They have a small baby, and when I called, I could hear the baby wailing in the background, which made me want to rush over and do anything I could for them. I arranged to visit the following weekend.

Their place is at the top of a hill, so I studied my bicycle map, made a plan, and now know of one route never to take again. I don’t want to dis the San Francisco bicycle map or anything, but the fact that Carolina St. dead ends, temporarily, at 18th St. would have been handy information. It also seemed to be about 90 degrees, so I was utterly drenched in sweat when I got there.

I found the husband looking very ill indeed, skeletal, and more or less unconscious—his wife said he had not eaten in three weeks, and that he had been sick for two years. I sat with him for an hour sending him and his wife and child kind wishes, out loud, but quietly.

His wife said she could use some help bathing him, but since I’m not allowed to do that in my official volunteering capacity, I told her with regret that it was outside my scope. I felt bad about it, but I am not trained in lifting or bathing patients, and it could have been dangerous to him, me, or his wife to undertake it. (In fact, the organization I volunteer with said later that it was very good that I didn't do that, and that after a certain point, a patient simply shouldn't be moved.)

The husband is officially a hospice patient, but no one was coming over to assist with anything meaningful. It almost sounds like his health care organization said, “Here’s a hospital bed and ten pounds of morphine. Good luck!”

It was a terribly sad thing, and I felt gloomy for days afterwards. It was also a good lesson in why it's probably better to volunteer via an organization; then the boundaries are very clear and if any questions or problems arise, you have someone to turn to.