How I Got Started.

The experience that most influenced my decision to change careers at age 46 (from advertising creative director to psychotherapist) was my volunteer work in the Palliative Care Unit at St. Paul's Hospital in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada.  The ward was, originally, one of the first AIDS hospices in North America, a model for many other facilities. As AIDS research yielded drug therapies that slowed the devastation and afforded longer lifespans, the hospice ward at St. Paul's began to see more and more elderly men and women afflicted with more age-related terminal illnesses along with an inevitable number cancers which, at the time, were more often fatal than than they are today.

At the time I began my volunteer work I was already entering the "restless" stage of my 25-plus years in advertising and marketing. An unsettling voice inside was saying There must be more to a life's work.  Not sure what I was looking for, but intrigued by a friend's suggestion of hospice work, I entered a rigorous volunteer training program; six weeks later, one or two evenings week, I was sitting at the bedsides of mostly older adults confronted with the final stages of illnesses that would eventually bring their lives to an end. As volunteers, we were fortunate to have been trained by professionals who gave us tools--and boundaries--with which to be actually useful to our patients. I remain grateful to Sharon, our volunteer coordinator, who was patient with all of us, and a particular inspiration to me.

My volunteer role was almost exclusively errand-driven: fetching tea and coffee for my patients and their visitors. Writing letters for those who felt the need to express words of closure, or to reconnect with an old friend.  Even running to the nearby drug store for writing supplies, stamps or some forbidden chocolate (not to worry--all treats were approved by the floor nurse). 

Some of these patients were simply on the ward to give their full-time caregivers a week or two of respite--which meant that, during the course of a year, I might see them leave and return to our ward several times. Others came in periodically for pain management, then, a fancy term for finding the right combinations and dosages of meds that would alleviate pain without completely dulling contact with one's waking world.

As the months went by and I became more accustomed to the routine and rhythm of the ward, it became more clear to me that another group found their way to the 8th floor: those who were in the final stages of their battle.  Sometimes there was a stream of visitors for those who were starting what the floor nurses informed me was "active dying."  There were final goodbyes and tears shared with family members.

But, sometimes, few people, if anyone came.  If a patient was lonely, or sometimes just scared, I would stop by and ask if they would like a visit. If they felt up to it, and said yes, I would often just sit with them, sometimes holding their hands. Often, they said very little, if anything at all. 

Other times, however, they would interrupt the quiet hum of the ward with an intimate, personal monologue. It was often a series of reminisces about simpler times, old loves, life dreams and disappointments, shining moments, regrets--personal, intimate, a life-review of sorts, shared with me, the person completely unqualified at the time to do anything but listen, smile and nod. This was the first time I was struck by the human need to be heard. To know that someone is listening. To feel that what you are saying, what you've done--that your life--matters. 

And, most of the time, a smile and nod were acknowledgment enough.  But I was left wanting to do more. Despite the fact that we, as volunteers, were carefully trained not to try to solve problems, or offer advice, I often wished I could do more to ease their distress. But at that time, our job, as volunteers, was to make the time we spent with patients completely about them. So my need to help (beyond my capacity) was subordinated to their need to make the final leg of their life journey in whatever way helped them most.

In the ensuing years, I've become qualified to offer more than smiles and nods. But my path to becoming a therapist started in the company of those older adults who honored me with their stories and most intimate thoughts. While I enjoy my work with clients across the lifespan, I continue to enjoy and be honored to work with older adults. More tomorrow about the gift of working with seniors.

Thanks for listening.