A patient's best friend: A true story about Bea

This is a true story about our amazing therapy dog, Bea, retold here with permission from the family. Names and details have been changed at their request.

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"Help me. Please help me."

Darlene twisted in the bed, the words falling as fast as raindrops. Alzheimer's disease might have taken the understanding of her surroundings, but not her will to control them. She unsuccessfully tried to sit up.

"Please, Mama, you have to lay down," said her son Jason, for the hundredth time. The move from the hospital to the Hospice House had both exhausted and scared his mother. "Don't try to get up. You need to stay in bed."

Darlene ignored him. "Help me. He'p-me-please." She tugged at the blankets, frustrated.

Jason sighed. If she were in pain, we could give her a pill or something, he thought wearily, but she's not in physical pain. She's lost, and confused, and panicking. "I'm here, Mama," he said, reaching for her hand. "Jason's here. It's alright."

"He'p-me," demanded Darlene.

"We're doing all we can to help you. You're in the Hospice House now. They're taking good care of you. Please, you need to lay down and rest."

From the foot of the bed, Jason's sister Sarah ran a hand across her brow. "Isn't there something else we can do? Something else to give her?"

"She's already had the anxiety meds," Jason answered. "This is actually better. If you think she's bad now, you should have seen her on the ride over."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just feel so helpless," said Sarah, squeezing her eyes shut. "What if -- Could we --"

The door creaked.

Jason and Sarah both jumped. The door swung inward, degree by slow degree. "Hello?" asked Jason.

At ground level, a white, furry head peeked around the door, her eyes inquiring.

"Well, who's this?" he grinned. The smile made him realize he'd been frowning for hours.

"It's Bea, the therapy dog," Sarah said. "They talked about her at the admission meeting, remember?"

"Hi there, Bea. Come on in," he invited.

Bea stepped one paw around the door, then another. She surveyed the room, taking note of the restless patient in the bed. As if in greeting, she walked directly to Sarah and dipped her head. It was almost a bow.

"You sweet thing," Sarah cooed, rubbing Bea's curly fur. "How precious you are."

Bea gave a quick wag in response and stepped toward Jason. She stopped at a respectful distance, waiting for him to make the first move. Jason dropped to one knee and held out his hand. After a quick sniff, Bea nuzzled his palm, ready for a pet. Jason scratched behind her ears, and Bea immediately rolled over for a belly rub. Sarah and Jason laughed.

"He'p?" said Darlene, looking around.

All business, Bea sat up and sniffed the air, her muzzle pointed toward Darlene. Her sensitive nose twitched. She looked at Sarah, then pointed back to the bed.

"I think she wants up there with Mom," said Sarah. "What do you think?"

Jason shrugged. "I dunno. She seems very calm. Want to try?"

Sarah gave Bea a reassuring pat and lifted her. Bea balked at Sarah's grasp, disliking the sensation of being picked up, but went still when she saw her destination was the bed. As surefooted as a tightrope walker, she padded up the blanket, carefully avoiding Darlene and the in-bed medical equipment.

"Help. Please," Darlene told her, her voice rising with -- excitement? Joy?

Jason and Sarah held their breath. Darlene stared at Bea, her eyes wide. Bea waited patiently, her nose twitching. Jason took his mother's hand in his own and guided it across Bea's soft, curly fur.

"Ohhhhh," Darlene breathed. It was a sound of pure happiness.

Sarah gave a half-laugh, half-sob as Bea turned a circle and nested into the covers against Darlene's waist. Darlene settled into her pillow, her hand roaming through the little dog's curls. After a few moments, she yawned. As her two tired children and one attentive poodle watched, Darlene fell asleep.

Bea shot a look at Jason that said, Was that a snore?


Jason gently lifted Darlene's hand and tucked it into the covers. Bea waited until he was finished, then backed away carefully from her sleeping patient. She hopped to the floor and gave a quick full-body shake. Her collar tinkled like a tiny bell.

"Good girl, Bea," said Sarah, smiling.

"Bye now, Bea," grinned Jason.

Bea lifted her chin in goodbye and tiptoed from the room.

"Guess she had to go see her next patient," Sarah murmured.

"Guess so. What a great dog," said Jason.

As if in agreement, Darlene gave a loud snore. She snuggled into her pillow. Jason reached over and turned out the light.

Merry Christmas!

On behalf of the staff and volunteers at Burke Hospice & Palliative Care, MERRY CHRISTMAS! We wish you a happy, peaceful day full of all good things!

Warmest Wishes,

Lea Hepler
Burke Hospice Media Coordinator
and Bea's Assistant

My holiday memorial

My counselor here at Burke Hospice is always telling me things like, "Take care of yourself. Things will be different this Christmas, and that's OK. Don't try to do everything just the way you used to."

Well, I decided to take her advice. In my last post, I went over a list of things you can do to remember your loved one's memory during holiday celebrations. I considered each one from the standpoint of, "Which of these activities can I do without stressing myself out?" So I ruled out the balloons because I won't have time to go buy them after work, and I didn't find a poem that really expressed how I felt, and I'm out of time to look for more poems, and when I thought about it, I really didn't want to mess with having lit candles around the house and being worried about someone knocking them over...

So! I settled on two things. One, I asked one of my friends to bring over a stocking and some pretty note paper for writing messages. She said she was glad I'd asked her to help, AND she volunteered to bring her amazing Pup-peroni Chex Mix too. That was a good phone call!

Second, I have decided to use one certain lamp for my memorial light instead of a candle. I do like the idea of the memorial candle, especially since a reader responded to my last post and told me about the Jewish tradition of Yahrzeit candles. Yahrzeit is Yiddish for "a year's time." A candle is lit for 24 hours on the anniversary of a person's passing and some holidays. I liked this idea a lot. It's beautiful, symbolic, and something I can handle without causing a lot of extra stress! So I've plugged my special lamp into one of the timers for our Christmas lights. It will come on at midnight tonight, shine all day, and turn itself quietly off the next midnight. I'll put a favorite picture of us underneath the light. Maybe it will be my new Christmas tradition.

What a relief! The anticipation really is worse than the holiday. Now that's decided, I feel like a weight is off my fluffy shoulders.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night...'s sleep!!!

Yawning,

Bea

The First Christmas after...

I've been trying to think of a way to honor Ron (see my previous post) at Christmas this year. I haven't felt much like celebrating at all, which our bereavement counselor tells me is normal. She says the anticipation of a holiday is usually worse than the actual day. I think she's right. When I think about it, sometimes I just want it to not come, period! But come it will, and when I think of all that Christmas is in my family... Music, warmth, new chew toys, treats, the post-dinner nap on the couch... Well, I wouldn't have any of that if Ron hadn't rescued me. It seems right to acknowledge him during this holiday of giving and gratitude.

But how? I feel apprehensive and guilty about even saying his name sometimes, as if I'll depress everyone else. (My counselor says these feelings are also normal.) I will feel terrible if I let the day go by without some sort of mention, however. So she suggested some ways to include his memory in our festivities that would help me express my feelings and add to our holidays in a positive way. Here are a few I think would be nice.

• Hang a stocking for your loved one. Invite family and friends to write a short note to him or her and place it in the stocking.

• Or use long strips of paper for your messages. Fold width-wise, so you have an even thinner strip of paper. "Tie" your messages around the ends of the boughs of your Christmas tree. (Make sure your notes are a safe distance from any Christmas lights.)

• Use a recipe book holder or small easel to prop up a favorite photo album, opened to a favorite picture. Use it as your dining table centerpiece, or place on a prominent coffee table or side table. This is a great conversation starter.

• Shortly before Christmas, buy a few helium-filled balloons. You might choose Christmasy red and green ones, or your loved one's favorite color. If the weather is right, find a clear area outside and have a balloon release. Say a prayer for your loved one, read a poem, or sing a song... Whatever seems right for you. Release the balloons together, or wait between each person to make a procession in the sky. Hint: Cut the balloon strings short (or don't use strings) to prevent tangles!

• Put flowers in a window, at your loved one's seat at the table, in their favorite chair... Choose a colorful arrangement, or use a single rose or lily.

By far, the most popular suggestion I found online was to light a candle in memory of your loved one. It seems like every family has added their own twist to the idea:

• Set a place for your loved one at dinner. Light a candle at their seat.

• Place a candle in your loved one's favorite place in the house, the same as the flower suggestion above. Pick a candle with their favorite scent or color.

• Serving your loved one's favorite dessert? Light a birthday candle on every serving. Say a prayer or read a poem in honor of him or her, and then have everyone blow out the candles at the same time! (A sort of "reverse" of the birthday tradition!) 

• Combine candle lighting with spoken verse. Ask each person to share a special story as they light separate candles, or use more formal words like the Five Candles ceremony described on this blog.

I love candle light, but I won't be flicking a Bic with my paws anytime soon, either. Be careful with placement of candles around the house, and never leave a candle unattended, no matter how symbolic it is! How terrible would it be to set Dad's favorite chair on fire — or worse — on Christmas Day?

If you have children or pets around, or simply aren't comfortable with candles in your home, forgo the flames altogether and get some of those little battery-powered candles at your local hardware or general store. You could even use one of your lamps. At our first Hospice House, there was one certain lamp the staff would turn on when one of our patients had passed. It was never used otherwise. When you saw its gentle light, even coming from an old incandescent bulb, it felt just as special and symbolic as any candle flame.

Just going over this list has made me feel a little better about Christmas. I even wagged a little when I thought about that dessert thing! Which suggestions do you think would work for your family?

Hanging in there,

Bea

A long hibernation

It has been a long time since I have put the proverbial pen to paw. I have not felt like writing in a long time. This past spring, my adoptive papa, Ron LaSalle, died after a long battle with cancer. He was 47. In dog years, that's not quite 7. I never thought I would outlive him.

I don't bark much about what happened before I came to Burke Hospice. Suffice to say, I ended up with a poodle rescue organization. That's where Ron found me. He wanted to have a friendly Therapy Dog to live at the Hospice House. Of course, poodles were the obvious choice: good looks, enchanting personality, fur that doesn't bother allergies, etc. Before I had a chance to realize what was happening, I was living at the old Hospice House on Enon Road.

What wonderful days those were! No more for me the cold, lonely floor of a cage; instead, I had a huge new houseful of patients, relatives, visitors, nurses, nurses' aides, social workers — so many people, all with warm, welcoming laps and gentle hands. Every day, they taught me something new. I learned not to bark at hospital beds, wheelchairs, walkers and oxygen tanks. I learned to Sit, not jump. I learned when to doze and when it was best to stay awake.

But the biggest lesson I learned was how to love. Ron didn't just give me a new home; he gave me a purpose. For the first time, I knew what it was to be loved, and how easy it is to give love in return. With each new patient who moved into the Hospice House, I tried to be as kind and loving as Ron and my new family had been to me.

When Ron died, I was overwhelmed with feelings. You know you're going to feel sad. But I didn't feel sad for a long time: I was angry. It was all so unfair! I was growling mad at the cancer, at his doctors, sometimes even at him for leaving me, even though I knew that made no sense at all. I was angry at myself for being angry! I got irritable and I took it out on the people around me.

Sometimes I'd just feel numb. I couldn't believe he was gone. More than once, I would wake up from an afternoon nap and expect him to walk in the front door.

The guilt was worse than the sad and mad combined. It was like my mind went searching for every memory where I should have done something differently. I shouldn't have barked, should have come when he called me, should have given more snuggles while I had the chance. Remembering a pair of his shoes I'd chewed to bits made me so ashamed, I hid under the living room ottoman for an hour.

Finally the sadness overwhelmed me. There were some days when I couldn't pull myself out of bed. Other days, I felt like I was just going through the motions. Sometimes, I would feel fine, only to be crushed by little things like old photographs or pieces of mail with his name on them. I wanted to hibernate. I wondered if I was going crazy.

A few weeks ago, I was in the lap of one of our bereavement counselors while she made calls to check in on grieving people. She was talking to a daughter who had lost her father, a woman who was struggling like me. "You loved him dearly, so of course you're going to miss him dearly," she said. "Everything you're feeling is normal. It's okay to feel what you're feeling, without thinking it's 'bad' to feel that way."

My ears perked up. Normal? I haven't felt normal in months.

She continued, "When you're feeling overwhelmed, use your journal. Find a blank page and write down everything that's running through your head, emotions, memories, whatever, just write it all down. Writing and allowing yourself to feel these things will help you work through your pain."

Writing? I thought about my blog, long gone quiet.

The next day, I sat down with a notebook and began to write. It took a long time to write down that first word. Then they just kept coming and coming.  I started writing in the book every day.

This morning, I was feeling kind of down. I decided to mention it in my journal: Today is gray and rainy. I wish the sun was out. I feel a little sad. I miss Ron.

It does help.

A whole New Year

It's almost that time again, when my human friends stay up waaaay past bedtime to watch that giant lighted ball fall down over Times Square. Why they do that, I have no idea, especially because they only drop it once and no one ever gets to chase it. Doesn't seem like much of a game to me.

Shortly after the ball drop, the humans start talking about "resolutions." If you ask me, the only resolution worth making is "I resolve to give Bea more Snausages," but to date no one has made that one.

Resolutions are one of those human things we dogs just don't get. Humans say things like, "I resolve to spend more time with my family." Then something will happen like you get the flu, or there's a birthday you have to prepare for, or you have to a deadline at work, and boom! All of a sudden you feel guilty about breaking your resolution, and we dogs have to spend the rest of the winter cheering you up about it (in between dropping the kids off at school, choir practice, grocery shopping, getting the car in for an oil change, potluck suppers, midnight trips to the pharmacy… etc., etc., etc.)

Now, a dog resolution would be much more short-term: "I resolve to eat my whole bowl of food in less than 45 seconds!" or "I resolve to pull down that adorable holiday bear in the foyer and chew it to pieces as soon as you can't see!"

Dogs are not much for delayed gratification.

So maybe that's something you can learn from dogs this year: Enjoy the moment. Take time to make yourself happy. Go ahead, it's just as important as all that other stuff. Watch the birds in the snow. Get a cup of hot chocolate -- the really good kind you don't usually splurge on. Look for pictures in the clouds while you're waiting to pick up the kids. Share a meal with each other, not the TV -- even if it's take-out. Give the dog a tummy rub and an extra treat. (That last one is probably the most important.)

Believe me, no one ever says, "I wish I'd gotten the car in for one more tune-up," or "I should have been a better grocery shopper." They hold me in their laps and they say things like "I wish I'd spent more time with my kids."

Think about it: Enjoy the moment. You have a whole new year to practice.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good dog this year. When asked to sit, I sit. When asked to stay, I stay. I would roll over, but it gets my pretty white fur dirty.

I have worked very hard to help people this year. Since January, I have visited over 100 patients at our Hospice House, plus their family members. I help the nurses and CNA’s take care of our patients. They take all kinds of medicines, but sometimes the best one is a wagging tail and a wet nose.

I would like a new sweater, an electric blanket for my dog bed, and a bag of Snausages.

I will leave you an extra dog biscuit next to the tree. Peanut butter—my favorite!

Sincerely,

Bea the Poodle