Climb for Hospice

This morning I went to the Ladner Legion.

Not exactly a place I’d normally find myself at 8am on a weekday (or any day, actually) but there I was. I was there to speak to the members of the Ladner Business Association (LBA)about my Kili climb, in the hopes that I could count on them to help raise awareness and/or funds to help me reach my goal of $10,000 for Delta Hospice.

They seemed like a nice group of people with good humour and an obvious camaraderie. I felt pretty comfortable there, and was looking forward to getting up and saying my bit. Thankfully I saw a familiar face when I walked in, as Michael from Open Space Yoga (my generous sponsor!) was there and invited me to sit at his table. Just before I was about to go up and speak, Michael asked if I was nervous. Actually, I wasn’t at all. I told Michael that since I’ve done the Vagina Monologues, I can pretty much do anything.

Ok, so maybe some of you don’t know that about me: for five years I acted in and/or co-directed The Vagina Monologues for charity. Each February/March Eve Ensler (the VM Author) allows the play to be performed without the users having to pay the copyright fee (it’s referred to as V-Day). However, the caveat is that all money raised through the production must go to local organizations helping to stop violence against women.

A worthy cause! So, given my penchant for quirky fundraising ideas, I thought it would be an interesting form of annual charity work. And so, since 2003, I have helped raise approximately $75,000 for local women’s charities in the Vancouver and Tri-Cities areas. I am extremely proud of that, and I love the fact that I was able to assist in raising that amount, while having fun at the same time!

So, the bar for my Kilimanjaro climb has been set high in my mind. My goal to raise $10,000 for Hospice will be acheived, that much I know. But hopefully with the help of the LBA, I can exceed that goal, and in the process invite an entire community to join me in having fun while doing so.

And I won’t even make any of you say the word “vagina”.

This morning I am going to attend the Memorial Service of a lovely man who I sat Vigil for recently. This particular gentleman (I’ll call him Gent) was in a palliative state for many days, almost defying all odds. This can be a stressful, painful time for family and friends, as they simply want to see their loved one pass away peacefully.

Gent’s wife was at his bedside day and night, ready to be there for him in his last moments. Days passed. Nights passed. Weeks passed, but still she sat. She talked with him, read to him, listened to music with him; she brushed his hair, held his hand, and kissed his forehead. They had been married for over 40 years.

Gent held on. We began to wonder what it is that could be keeping him from taking that last step through the door. All the children came in to say goodbye, all the grandchildren did, too. Friends came over, the Priest came in and administered last rites, but after many days, Gent was still not ready to leave this world.

It is believed that, to a certain degree, a palliative person can “choose” when to die. I can honestly say that I have seen this on a number of occasions. The thing is, one must remember that it is the dying person’s choice, and no one can rush them. Gent was making that abundantly clear!

His beautiful wife talked with him and told him that he was going to be ok. She told him that she was going to be ok. She told him the children and grandchildren were going to really like having him watch over them forever. She told him that they would never forget about him. She told him that there was nothing to be afraid of. Gent listened. For days.

In my experience, humour at moments like these can be a tricky, tricky thing. One has to be able to gauge the others in the room before cracking a joke that may be considered offensive in such a situation. However, Gent’s wife is a woman of great, dark humour and at one point she stood up, looked at Gent, threw up her hands and said, “This is so like you! You’re so stubborn!” then she ran her fingers through her hair and let out an exasperated growl. And then she laughed.

She and I then sat in Gent’s room and began to wonder aloud why he was taking such a long time to make the decision to die. She had run through every conceivable scenario with him, and now she was finding the humour in the fact that he was hanging on. “He’s in the boarding lounge, but he’s not getting on the plane!” she said. We wondered if the plane was being de-iced.

I had been relatively silent until this time, wondering just how far a humourous comment could go… I took the chance: “I think that maybe the TSA has taken over at the Pearly Gates, and Gent is stuck in the security line. Have we checked his pocket for metals?”

Gent’s wife absolutely lost it, and she and I both started to snort with laughter and were doubled-over with tears in our eyes as the scenarios for why Gent was still with us came pouring out of us. Gent’s wife joked that he was just toying with us all and had “one foot over the line, and was dancing back and forth, playing a game with us”. Gent’s wife knew that Gent was laughing, too, as he had a good sense of humour, and would certainly have appreciated the tension realease.

And then, after we were all but exhausted, we stopped laughing. The room went quiet once again. We listened to Gent’s easy, gentle breathing, and stood there looking at him with our arms around each others’ shoulders. And Gent’s wife said, “You know what I think it is? The earthquake in Haiti has created a pretty big backlog at The Gates, and being that gentleman that he is, he’s simply stepping aside to allow the women and children to go in first”

And that was that. That’s exactly what it was. It just made sense, really.

And so, after hugging one another, I stepped out of the room and left Gent’s wife to sit with him in silence one more time. He stayed with us for many more days after that, but when he finally did make the decision to ‘step into the line’, his wife was by his side, and had gently encouraged him not to be scared. It was a quiet, peaceful moment between two people who shared a great love for one another.

And for me, it was a great honour to have been a small part of such a huge moment.

Godspeed, Gent.

As I was driving to work today, I was treated to the sight of a snow-covered, sun-glowed, soft-hued Mount Baker in the distance. What an impressive mountain! I wonder how tall it is? It can’t be that much smaller than Kilimanjaro, can it? I mean, look at it! It’s HUGE!

*Googles*

Hmmm, says here that Mount Baker is… oh no. Seriously? The thing is HALF the height of Mt. Kilimanjaro? I have to climb TWO Mt. Bakers to equal ONE Mt. Kilimanjaro? Ohhh, geez… I really need to bump up my cardio training.

And now… THE PROTEIN BAR TASTE TEST CONTINUES!

Exhibit D – Elevate Me!

Brand: Elevate Me!
Flavour: Cocoa Coconut Cluster
Tag Line: “The world’s simplest protein & fruit energy bar”
First Ingredient: Whey protein isolate

Well, it certainly has a heck of a lot less ingredients than all the other bars I’ve tried! Wanna’ know what else it has in it? Dates, raisins, apples, cranberries, almonds, coconut, and fair trade cocoa. I feel as though I’ve made a socially conscious decision here! I don’t think I’ve ever felt proud buying something that has the word “cluster” in it. Usually words like “cluster”, (along with “caramel” and “marshmallow”) evoke feelings of shame and betrayal. Tasty, tasty betrayal…

Anyway, back to Elevate Me! It comes in three little squares, which is nice because your brain says, “Oh wonderful! I’ll just eat one”. But you don’t eat just one. You never eat just one. The first bite of one of the squares was really, really good. And then the texture kicked in. It’s a little like chewing on a pear that has been lightly rolled in gravel and then had dried cranberries punched into it. Still, it tasted alright. Not the best thing I’ve ever eaten (that would be pretty much anything from La Belle Auberge), but it’ll do.

Energy-wise? Can’t say it did a whole lot, but then again, I had a nap right after I ate it. So, that was probably counter-productive, eh?

Today is the long-awaited opening of the Centre for Supportive Care and Hospice Residence. Last night, volunteers were invited to have a look inside before it officially opens to the public. I knew this was going to be a beautiful facility, but I was still unprepared for what I saw…

I toured the Hospice Residence last night, and I am not ashamed to say that as soon as I walked through the front doors, the tears began to well in my eyes. The Residence is a simply designed, natural, welcoming space, obviously created with the residents and their families in mind. There is a beautiful kitchen connected to an intimate dining area, comfortable home-like seating areas, quiet hallways free of clutter, a childrens’ room stuffed with toys and books, a lovely spa room (with an all-important towel-warmer!), and a family room with a comfortable bed should family members wish to stay the night.

All beautiful, all welcoming, all perfectly personal and serene.

But it was the ten private suites that stole my heart. As I write this now, I have tears in my eyes as I think of how much thought and honesty went into these suites. They are made as much for the living as for the dying. I could tell you about the incredible lift system in each room, that comfortably and safely brings the resident to the private en-suite. I could tell you about the tasteful, simple furnishings that adorn each room. The small fridge, the variety of different lights and settings, the understated and non-institutional bedding of soft blankets and gentle sheets…

I can tell you about the reclining chairs that have been placed beside each of the ten beds. At a time when they are caring only of the comfort of their loved ones, family members have someone to think of theirs.

But the thing that really struck me, the thing that made everything fall into place was this: off each of the rooms is a small, private, covered balcony surrounded by immaculate, understated gardens and trees… and the doors to these balconies open wide enough to allow a resident’s bed to be gently moved outside. It was at this moment of my tour that I started crying and simply could not stop. The idea that someone thought so far as to ensure that even the most ill of residents, those who may be too weak to move, those who are living the final days of their life, could go outside and feel the sun, hear the birds in the trees, take a breath of fresh air, was more than my heart could bear. To me, that wide door was selflessness personified.

This coming week, the public has an opportunity to tour the Centre for Supportive Care and Hospice Residence – I think you should go. All of you.

20 years ago, Nancy Macey had an idea to start a simple phone line where people who needed help or education regarding end-of-life care could call and get connected. Now there is a physical space where end-of-life-care is conducted with patience, dignity, and kindness. A place where individuals can go for support, education, and peace. A place where entire families can get the care they needed. Why? Because Nancy confidently asked the community of Delta to help raise over $7 million, and we said yes. There were donations of a million dollars, and donations of the simple, appreciated change that someone had in their pocket that day. Funds were raised by corporations, organizations, and individuals. Bottles and cans were collected, fund-raising Yoga classes were held, talented stylists donated their tips, and selfless children gave up anticipated birthday presents, choosing to ask for donations to Hospice instead.

And here, today, is the result.

This is the Hospice that our community built.

Jan 20, 2009

A lot of people ask me what a Vigil is, and what it’s like, so I thought I’d take a moment to chat about it…

I sit on the Delta Hospice Vigil Team – the team consists of volunteers who go in and provide companionship for a person who is in their last 72 hours of life. Sometimes we are called when there is no family available to sit with the individual, and sometimes we are called when the family is there, but maybe needs a bit of a break. We sit in 3-hour shifts, and can be asked to be there on a 24-hour basis, or simply overnight.

Some people wonder why I volunteered for this particular position, seeing it as somewhat macabre, dark or negative. On the contrary, I chose to volunteer for the Vigil Team because I see it as exactly the opposite of macabre, dark and negative. Unless you actually do a vigil, it is very hard to understand one, and even if you do a vigil, it is very hard to describe. I’ll try my best, though…

As everyone lives their lives differently, so they pass on differently, as well. I am not a religious person by any means, but that is of little consequence when I have been given the honour of sitting with someone in their final hours. Something changes in me when I go into that room and see the person I am to be with for the next three hours – I do not bring a book, or a magazine, or any outstanding work that I need to get done, I simply go in and sit. I do not do things like feel a person’s pulse. That’s not why I am there. I am there to make sure that this person is not alone when they leave this earth.

I introduce myself and explain why I am sitting with them, and what they can expect from me. I sit down, take the person’s hand, or place my hand on their arm, and sometimes I may just start talking to them. I look around and take in the photos and personal items adorning the room, and use them as a starting point to begin my conversation. Maybe if there is a book available, I will read it aloud. If there is a magazine, I will leaf through it and describe some of the photographs within it. If there is a stereo, I’ll play some music. If there is a Bible, a Qur’an, some Buddhist readings, or any other religious literature, I may read it aloud, no matter what my own personal beliefs may be. I’m here for that person, and I am going to respect and honour who they are and who they were. But for the most part, I spend a good deal of my time with the person just sitting quietly, maybe not saying much at all.

The person I am sitting with is, more often than not, non-responsive, but that never stops me from interacting with them as best I can. The most important thing that I learned about doing a vigil is this: hearing is the last of the senses to leave us. The non-responsive person can hear me, and so I make sure to always keep that in mind as I am talking with them, with another person, or if I am simply moving about the room.

It is an honour to sit with a person who is dying – it is an incredible thing to bear witness to as someone’s physical story draws to a close. You know that their history will live on, and that their body is simply ceasing to function, and so when the time comes when they do pass into that next world in which they believe in, it is an immensely spiritual, honest moment.

Sitting on the Vigil Team has changed my perspective not only of death, but of life, as well. I have seen incredibly touching moments when sons say goodbye to fathers, and wives tell their husbands that everything will be just fine, and when brothers hold their sister’s hand one last time. I have been in the room at the exact moment when a person makes the decision to let go; be it a family member, friend, or the dying person themselves. There is no greater honour.

It is my privilege to serve people in this way, and I take to heart my responsibilities as a Vigil Volunteer. It is an intensely personal, immaculately open, and truly important part of my life to sit with someone as their life draws to its final close.

And I appreciate the Delta Hospice for allowing me this incredible opportunity.

I went to Videoland on Friday and grabbed a couple training DVDs. Actually, let me just back up a bit…

In 2008 I decided that I needed to try something new and exciting. For some unknown reason I got it into my head that learning to run 10k seemed like a really good idea. So I bought new running shoes, got a few headbands and a cheap wristwatch. Now, the biggest challenge I was facing was the fact that I had to run, you know, outside. Not a big fan of that outside place. How could I get around this?

Craigslist. “Like new treadmill, $200”. Score!

So, I brought home my “like-new treadmill” and set it up in my living room, with my old laptop balanced precariously in front of it on the fireplace mantle. I was going to run 10k AND catch up on all the movies and TV shows I had missed seeing (given that I haven’t had a TV since 2004). I bought myself some cheap headphones, printed off the “Training to Run 10k” program from SportMedBC and I was good to go.

It took over two months of almost-daily training, but I could finally run 10k. Aside from movies (FYI: the average movie is about 10k long), I was able to watch every episode of Sex and the City, Arrested Development, The Venture Brothers, Boston Legal, The West Wing, Pushing Daisies, Dexter, Dirty Sexy Money, and Californication (plus a few other series that I started but didn’t really like). Along the way I got to know the Videoland clerks pretty well, and came to appreciate Thursdays when I could get 5 DVDs for $10. One particularly lovely clerk was always up on what I was watching and could always tell me what season and episode I was supposed to rent next – this was very, very helpful. She actually memorized my account number. I didn’t, but she did. She has such a nice smile, and is always so positive and cheerful. It makes me happy to go and rent DVDs from her if I’ve had a bad day.

So, I went in a couple weeks ago to rent a handful of DVDs and she was surprised by my return. I informed her that I was in training for something and left it at that. But when I went back last Friday to grab a couple “training DVDs”, and brought them up to the counter, the kind lady with the nice smile simply said, “well, guess you can’t back out now, eh?” (referring to the Delta Optimist article), and rung my DVDs through with a smile.

Nope, I can’t back out now. Especially since I know the nice Videoland lady is counting on me, too.

*Warning: this post may be graphic and disturbing to some. Please read at your discretion*

Three years ago today, Kirk Holifield was murdered in a drive-by shooting. In a sickening case of mistaken identity, Kirk was killed simply because the truck he was driving looked similar to the truck owned by a known gang member. Kirk had done nothing wrong, he had committed no crime, he was only driving home.

Early in the morning of January 11th, 2007, my best friend got a knock on her front door. Stumbling half-asleep through the darkness, she opened the door to what every person fears will be on their doorstep at that time of the morning: a somber looking policeman, and a Victim’s Assistance volunteer.

They entered her home and told her that a man fitting the description of her husband, Kirk Holifield, had been found slumped over the wheel of his pick-up truck, shot multiple times. As my friend tried to understand what she had just been told, and began rushing about making plans to get to the hospital, the policeman received a phone call: Kirk had died in the hospital when attempts to revive him were not successful.

When the police officer hung up the phone and looked at my friend, she knew what his next words would be, and she didn’t want to hear them. The officer compassionately relayed the message from the hospital, and with his words, my friend’s world was changed forever. Lost, and in total disbelief, she ran out the front door, and dropped to her knees in the snow in the front yard, as endless questions and emotions collided within her. She didn’t feel the cold. She didn’t feel it when caring hands lifted her up to bring her back inside. She felt nothing, because all she could think about was how her ten- month-old daughter would now be forced to go through life without a father. But the worst of the night was yet to come: Kirk’s parents needed to be told this news.

In no way could I ever describe that destroying, incapacitating, dark, empty moment when someone is told that their son, their only child, has been killed. To witness that instantaneous anguish, and watch as a husband tries in vain to keep his wife from this immeasurable pain, is something that will haunt a heart forever. In an instant, nothing was ever going to be the same again. An insurmountable journey to heal was before them now, one they didn’t ask for but were forced to take.

Thankfully, Delta Hospice stepped in to act as a compassionate, gentle guide. They showed patience and kindness, and let us all know that they were there when we were ready. They waited, never pushing us to “get help” or to “go talk to someone”. They didn’t rush us out of “denial”, or tell us to “just not think about it”. They allowed us to “dwell”, to question, to rage, and to cry. And when we were finally ready for them, they were still there.

My personal story is mine to tell, and today I share it with you. I went in to Delta Hospice and sat with Marg Fletcher, one of the counselors on staff there. I had experienced my own losses prior to Kirk’s death, and so I was completely torn up inside. Marg taught me that whatever I was feeling was completely normal, and to allow myself to feel all of that anger, sadness, guilt, fear, and hatred because it was all important. However, she also reminded me that feeling happiness was important, too. It was ok to experience joy in the little things in life again. But how could I be happy again when I knew that Kirk was dead? How could I ever laugh again when I knew that a little girl had lost her father? How could I ever smile again when I knew that my best friend’s husband had been taken from her? Am I allowed to have happiness when I know that loving parents have had their son stolen from their lives so ruthlessly? I had watched my best friend grieve, and I would never, ever be able to get those images out of my mind. Marg told me that it was ok, that I didn’t have to get those images out of my mind. She taught me how to sit with them and understand them.

And so, I sat with Marg for many weeks, and I watched as Kirk’s loved ones found their own supports in the Delta Hospice, too. The Hospice was working hard on making us all whole again. The Hospice is going to be with us for every step of this journey, no matter what, no matter when. And that support and compassion is nothing less than priceless.

I am climbing Mount Kilimanjaro because I want to take on a new journey now. I want each step I take to show my appreciation, my gratitude and my respect for the Delta Hospice. I will climb this mountain, because I want to let my friend, and Kirk’s parents, know that this is how I feel I can support them best – by giving back to those that gave to them. I am grateful for the opportunity to do so.

I survived my training session last night – kind of. I can walk today, but that’s only out of sheer determination on my part to deny any type of pain whatsoever. I figure this could be helpful when it comes to climbing Kili.

My trainer Cara,(caraprofessionaltrainer.webs.com) is crazy. I mean incredible. She gets to know her clients really well, and so is then able to know what motivates them best. For example, I am *not* a bootcamp kind of gal. If someone yells at me I will cry. It is very hard for me to do push ups when I’m crying.

Cara does not yell at me, but she does push me quite hard. She is enthusiastic and supportive, and always positive about the work I have done that session. She doesn’t poke my belly fat and giggle saying, “hey there Stay Puft!”, she doesn’t send spies after me when I go grocery shopping to make sure I stay out of the cracker aisle, and she doesn’t roll her eyes, throw her hands up and walk away in a snit when I only do 47 sit-ups instead of 50.

That being said, working out with her is not easy, even though she’s really sneaky and makes it seem like you’re going to be doing really simple exercises. For example, last night she had me walk up and down her hallway in a crouching position (with my chest and chin up high). Pfffft, whatever. It’s crouching, how hard can that be? I fell over three times, found out EXACTLY where my quads are, and at one point I think I started grunting like a constipated gorilla. I’m not sure, though. That could have been the dog. (Always blame the dog.)

Anyway, my first workout after seven weeks away went pretty much as well as I expected. I have resolved to walk around my house in a crouchy-type position from here on in, as I want to build up my stamina and quad strength. I figure this too, could be helpful when it comes to climbing Kili.

The last time I saw my personal trainer was on November 12th, 2009. I got into a car accident 3 days later, and since then I have been working with a really fantastic kinesiologist (how DO you spell that?!) from KARP Fitness named Elsa in order to get myself back into shape so that I can go see my trainer again… to get back into shape.

Before I continue, I just want to say one thing about ICBC: They have been incredibly supportive and amazing throughout my whole accident/injury/car write-off/settlement ordeal. I don’t have a single negative thing to say about them, and I will no longer gripe and complain about paying my auto insurance. That is all.

Anyway, tonight, after seven loooooong weeks of not working out, I am going back to have my butt kicked by a very driven, but very supportive She-Ra type woman. I am sure she will take one look at me and start crying, given that in seven weeks I have turned from Lean-Mean-Awesome-Machine (not really) into Fluffy-Christmas-Gorging-Tubby-Clunker (or something). It’s a good thing my workout gear is black, as I hear that black is slimming.

*dons workout gear, looks in mirror*

Or not.

I am going to climb a mountain. Well, I’m going to walk up one, anyway.

I haven’t done anything like this before. In fact, I can probably count the number of times I’ve gone hiking, and I know I haven’t been camping more than half a dozen times. Don’t get me wrong, I know what I’m getting into. I’ve watched videos about climbing this mountain. I’ve submitted questions about the climbing of this mountain to semi-popular websites. I have bought (although not yet read) books about this mountain. I feel about as prepared as someone who listens to a song on the radio and then starts hiring roadies to prepare for a world tour.

In August of 2010, I am going to fly to Tanzania, Africa and climb Mount Kilimanjaro as a way to raise money for the Delta Hospice. The Hospice holds a very special place in my heart, and it is my absolute honour to take on this journey to fund raise on their behalf. But this will be no simple journey. Oh no, this will be a flat-out epic.

Aside from the parent-induced membership in Brownies and Girl Guides, I have managed to avoid the outdoors quite sufficiently for about 30 years. I am the anti-camper. I do not like being cold. The sound of rain drops falling on a tent is nearly trauma-inducing. I would rather be in prison than a sleeping bag. (Some of you more astute readers may be able to pick up the subtle hints I am dropping in regards to my views on outdoor life).

To climb Mount Kilimanjaro means that I will need to… oh, man… camp for 10 days.

And so, purely for your entertainment, I am going to allow you into my world as I train for this adventure. For the next seven months, I will allow parts of my life to become an open book, and permit you to laugh, cry and shake your head in total disbelief as I attempt to turn myself from Robyn the Indoor Princess, into Robyn the Sobbing Mess of Outdoorsy Semi-Competence.

And so it begins…

Bring it on, Kilimanjaro!

I have been thinking about this climb for quite a few months now, and trying to mentally prepare myself for what is going to be an incredibly difficult, but absolutely amazing journey.

I make lists of items I am going to need to purchase. I plan the best route to ensure maximum acclimatization time and ample jet-lag recovery time. I listen to African music that I find on-line. I upload photos of Kilimanjaro to my desktop. I attempt to discern how I can fit 10 rolls of toilet paper into my pack while still having room for the less essential items like socks and a sleeping bag. I write myself notes to ensure that I put a bottle of champagne in the fridge before I leave, and I pre-book a pedicure for the day I arrive home… you know, all the important things.

And the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that I know exactly how this trip is going to go down:

I am going to cry.

A lot.