{"product_id":"on-living-isbn-9781594634826","title":"On Living","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"A poetic and philosophical and brave and uplifting meditation on how important it is to make peace and meaning of our lives while we still have them.” \u003ci\u003e–\u003c\/i\u003eElizabeth Gilbert, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eEat Pray Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Illuminating, unflinching and ultimately inspiring... A book to treasure.” \u003ci\u003e–People Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA hospice chaplain passes on wisdom on giving meaning to life, from those taking leave of it. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs a hospice chaplain, Kerry Egan didn’t offer sermons or prayers, unless they were requested; in fact, she found, the dying rarely want to talk about God, at least not overtly. Instead, she discovered she’d been granted a powerful chance to witness firsthand what she calls the “spiritual work of dying”—the work of finding or making meaning of one’s life, the experiences it’s contained and the people who have touched it, the betrayals, wounds, unfinished business, and unrealized dreams. Instead of talking, she mainly listened: to stories of hope and regret, shame and pride, mystery and revelation and secrets held too long. Most of all, though, she listened as her patients talked about love—love for their children and partners and friends; love they didn’t know how to offer; love they gave unconditionally; love they, sometimes belatedly, learned to grant themselves. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis isn’t a book about dying—it’s a book about living. And Egan isn’t just passively bearing witness to these stories. An emergency procedure during the birth of her first child left her physically whole but emotionally and spiritually adrift. Her work as a hospice chaplain healed her, from a brokenness she came to see we all share. Each of her patients taught her something about what matters in the end—how to find courage in the face of fear or the strength to make amends; how to be profoundly compassionate and fiercely empathetic; how to see the world in grays instead of black and white. In this hopeful, moving, and beautiful book, she passes along all their precious and necessary gifts.“Funny, honest, and self-deprecating…\u003ci\u003eOn Living\u003c\/i\u003e adds to the understanding of end-of-life issues in an important and accessible way…If there is one thing death teaches us, it’s how to live.”\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Illuminating, unflinching and ultimately inspiring, [\u003ci\u003eOn Living\u003c\/i\u003e] presents “the spiritual work of dying” as a profound process with undeniable elements of beauty. A book to treasure.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–People Magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"This isn’t a self-help book, but in its own way it inspires and instructs. Ms. Egan, a hospice chaplain, has a down-to-earth, never-preachy style.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–The Wall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"On Living.\u003c\/i\u003e.. is about what makes us human.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Houston Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"A poetic and philosophical and brave and uplifting meditation on how important it is to make peace and meaning of our lives while we still have them.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–\u003c\/i\u003eElizabeth Gilbert, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eEat Pray Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Egan... works as a hospice chaplain, supporting the spirits of those who are dying. In this book, she compassionately describes and distills what she has learned in their service.”\u003cb\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Equal parts memoir and meditative text on the nature of life — and the many faces of faith….this beautiful book will speak to parts of your heart that you didn't even realize were hurting. What's more: It might help heal them.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRefinery29\u003c\/i\u003e, Best New Books to Read This Month\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A unique gem of a book... Wise without being preachy, warm without being cloying, Kerry Egan offers a delightful, humorous, and ultimately joyful perspective on what it means to be alive.”\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Egan’s evocative and eloquent book reminds us that we are defined by the stories we tell, and those stories often reveal how life can be “beautiful and crushing” at the same time.”\u003cb\u003e --\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Terrific…[Egan is] a great storyteller because she's a great story-listener…The stories from patients in this book are compelling. And it's through those stories that we get some helpful insight into the difficult, misunderstood but necessary work of chaplains in hospice settings. When it's time for me to have one, I hope there are more Kerry Egans in the world.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Faith Matters \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Lovely, perceptive, and absorbing…a gem and a blessing.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–LifeZette \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Beautiful.”\u003cb\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Jewish Journal  \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“It's the rare book that touches heart and soul. For me, Kerry Egan's remarkable memoir of her experiences as a hospice chaplain, On Living, is that rarity … I wanted to copy inspiring and poignant quotes from every other page…This is no preachy book of clichés, no prayers for the dying — just many reminders that time is short and that beauty, grace and loss exist in every life.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–News Tribune \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“In Egan’s narrative, hope takes many shapes… It’s the kind of wisdom that might comfort someone experiencing a pain, suffering loss, or facing death. While belief systems may be filled with arguments and theories, Egan’s perspective is more forgiving, softer, and grayer…By showing how she sits with death, Egan helps reveal what we might be afraid to face.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Christian Century\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Good dose of humor…beautiful... raw and vulnerable.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e–Hannah Creager, Williamsburg Hospice\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is one of the best books I have read all year: moving, inspiring, beautifully written…It is a book well worth exploring.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–America Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In her sophomore outing, Egan masters the art of imparting critical life advice without coming off as preachy—a difficult feat…Egan’s empathetic tone is a comfort for both the healthy and the dying—whom, she opines, are not polar opposites…As the title suggests, this is not just a book about dying. It’s one that will inspire readers to make the most of every day.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Powerful...in this quick read, Egan takes readers on an emotional journey through many unforgettable lives.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Egan’s] anecdotes are often thought-provoking combinations of sublime humor and tragic pathos… A moving, heartfelt account of a hospice veteran.” \u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A unique gem of a book... On Living is anything but mournful. In fact, it’s one of the most hopeful and insightful books I’ve read in years. Wise without being preachy, warm without being cloying, Kerry Egan offers a delightful, humorous, and ultimately joyful perspective on what it means to be alive.” \u003cb\u003e—Abby Geni, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lightkeepers\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“I know from experience what a blessing hospice can be for patients and their families. Kerry Egan’s insightful book is a blessing as well. A born storyteller, she allows us a glimpse into a little-known world, where ordinary people face death with wit, humor, sadness, and regret. Egan reveals that the job of a chaplain is mostly to listen to them as they work out how to set things right with those they love, and find meaning in their lives.” \u003cb\u003e—Kathleen Norris, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Cloister Walk, Amazing Grace, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Acedia and Me\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When I forget the importance of kindness, when I forget to listen, when I no longer recognize the comfort of a quiet presence, when no words will help, when I lose sight of what is most important, I will want \u003ci\u003eOn Living\u003c\/i\u003e within arm's reach, always. I love this book.” \u003cb\u003e—Abigail Thomas, author of \u003ci\u003eA\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eThree Dog Life \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eWhat Comes Next and How to Like It\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “It's a brave thing to walk into the rooms of the dying with no props--to sit down, open your heart and your mind, and be present to whatever comes up. But that's exactly what chaplain Kerry Egan does, and in \u003ci\u003eOn Living\u003c\/i\u003e, she reveals some of what she has learned. What does come up? Anger, love, regret, secrets, stories, and insights, well-told and well-felt.\" \u003cb\u003e—Victoria Sweet, author of \u003ci\u003eGod’s Hotel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eKerry Egan \u003c\/b\u003eis a hospice chaplain ordained by Harvard Divinity School. A graduate of the Iowa Writers Workshop and the author of a memoir, \u003ci\u003eFumbling: A Journey of Love, Adventure and Renewal\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eon the Camino de Santiago\u003c\/i\u003e, she has published in many national print and online publications, including \u003ci\u003eParents, American Baby, Reader's Digest,\u003c\/i\u003e and CNN.com, where her essays have been read over a million times.  She and her family live in Columbia, SC.\u003cb\u003ethe stories we tell\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I never did become wise. Y'always think that when you get old,      you're supposed to become wise. But here I am, fixin' to die, and      I never did.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gloria's milky blue eyes widened and she raised her eyebrows. She      laughed, just a little bit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'd have thought, with all I been through, that if anyone might      could figure it all out before it was too late, it was me.\" She      laughed again, a sort of rolling chuckle that interrupted her      slow, drawling cadence. She laughed all the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You know.\" She leaned toward me and sunlight lit up the white      baby fuzz on top of her head. \"I always wished I could meet a      writer, and tell him my stories, so other people could hear them      and not make the same mistakes I made. I'd just give him my      stories. I'd say, 'Here, take them and tell them.' And you know      what crazy stories I've got. But I never did. I never did meet a      writer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was uncertain what to say. I had once written a book, more than      ten years before, but I wasn't here as a writer now. Gloria was a      hospice patient and I was her chaplain. I couldn't remember if I'd      ever told her about my past, but I didn't think I had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I used to pray for it all the time, that I might could meet      someone,\" she continued. \"But I guess that prayer won't ever be      answered now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We fell silent, and I hoped Gloria would change the subject.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She lifted her hands from the armrests and let them fall as she      sighed heavily. \"I never even leave this house. I'm stuck here.      How could I ever meet a real writer now?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She looked at me, shook her head, and smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I prayed and prayed and prayed. Some prayers just don't get      answered, I suppose.\" She laughed, but this time it sounded sad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was getting ridiculous. I hesitated for one more silent minute,      then said, \"Gloria, did I ever tell you I was once a writer?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A real writer?\" Her sparse eyebrows flew up again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, but it was a long time ago.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Like someone who wrote a book?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes. Published and everything.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She threw up her hands and looked at the ceiling. \"All this time      I've been waiting for a man, Jesus!\" she yelled. She bounced just      slightly in her recliner. She turned and looked at me. \"I thought      you'd be a man, Kerry! But this is it!\" She rocked back and forth      and spread her arms wide. \"I can feel it! This is the answer. The      Holy Spirit sent you to me, and I've already told you all my      stories. Now you've just got to go write them down. Maybe they      could help someone. Maybe someone else can get wise from them.      Promise me you'll tell my stories.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e While a few patients before Gloria had told me that they wished      other people could learn from their life stories-had even given me      permission to share their stories with others-it was Gloria and      the promise I made to her that led to this little book. I had been      holding on to patientsÕ stories for many years by then, the      stories that patients had poured out and puzzled over, the stories      they turned over in their minds like the rosary beads and worn      Bibles they turned over in their hands. I hoarded them, locked      them away in my heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Often, but not always, my patients found some measure of peace as      we talked. Often, but not always, their faith in something good      and greater than themselves was affirmed. Often, but not always,      they found strength they didn't know they had to make amends with      the people in their lives, and courage to move forward without      fear toward their deaths. Always, they taught me something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We all have some experiences that we hold up as the stories that      define our lives. Patients told me those stories, sometimes once      or twice, and sometimes dozens of times over. Usually the way they      told them changed with each telling. Not the basics of the story,      but what they emphasized, the details, the connections they made      between the details, and eventually, the connections they made      between the various stories, even if the events they recounted      happened decades apart. The meaning they found in their stories      expanded and shifted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Almost always, their stories were about shame or grief or trauma:      My child died in my arms when he was four. My wife left me for      another man while I was a soldier far away. I killed someone. My      father raped me. I drank my life away. My husband beat my children      and I did nothing to stop it because I was afraid. I was not      loved, and I don't know why. The stories confused them. How could      these things possibly have happened, and what did it all mean?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I donÕt know if listening to other peopleÕs life stories as they      die can make you wise, but I do know that it can heal your soul. I      know this because those stories healed mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just as was true for every one of my patients, something had      happened to me, too. What I thought of as the story that had      shaped my life up to that point was one I was ashamed of. I      thought I was broken and cracked and could not be put back      together again, that I was destroyed at the very deepest part of      me, and that this was something that could never be made better.      When I started working in hospice, I didn't yet understand that      everyone-everyone-is broken and cracked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just a few months after starting to work in hospice, I walked into      the dark, run-down room of a nursing home patient whose chart said      she had both colon cancer and advanced dementia. Instead of the      weak, curled-up patient I expected, I found a beautiful woman with      tightly set white curls on her head sitting ramrod straight on her      bed. She was like an emaciated, blue-tinged china doll on the      expanse of white institutional sheets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Instead of greeting me with the deep silence of end-stage      dementia, she spoke in a broad New England accent about what it      was like to lose pieces of your body, pieces you had never      appreciated until they were gone. It can happen, even with      end-stage dementia, that a patient will have moments, or even a      day, of perfect clarity. As she talked about her many years of      treatment for cancer, a pink flush crept up the papery skin of her      neck and across her face. First her hands and then her whole body      quivered. Her voice slowly got louder as her body got tenser.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I have no asshole!\" she finally exploded. Her tiny white fists      hit the bed in unison. Even using all her strength, she barely      dented the sheets. \"I can't shit!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She looked away and stared at the radiator intently. When she      spoke again, her voice was a gravelly whisper. \"Every person who      came in that hospital room, they all stared down at me. They      didn't actually see me. They didn't want to see me. They talked to      me in baby talk like I'm an idiot. They looked at me and thought,      'I'm happy I'm not like her.' Even if they were nice, I knew they      thanked God that they weren't me. I knew they only saw a crazy,      pathetic old woman who doesn't even have an asshole.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We sat in silence for a few seconds that felt like minutes. When      she looked at me again, I said, \"What you needed was compassion,      but what you got was pity.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes.\" She sucked in air. \"Yes, that's right. That's exactly      right.\" She looked at me with surprise. She furrowed her eyebrows      and said in a different voice, an almost-accusing voice, \"You're      very young.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm older than I look.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No. You're young,\" she said flatly. \"How do you know these      things?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well.\" I wasn't expecting that question. \"Well, I've been through      some hard things. I know what pity feels like.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She sat up even straighter and pinned me with her eyes. \"Why?      What's your story? What happened to you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could feel heat prickle through my body. \"I'd rather not say,      because I'm here to talk about your life. My role as the hospice      chaplain is to listen to you, to help you draw on your spiritual      strengths to get through this time.\" I tried to sound      professional.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're ashamed.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No, no. Not at all.\" Suddenly I wanted to stand up and run. I      could hear the ocean in my ears and feel my heart in my chest. I      held on to the edge of the bed. \"It's just that I know myself, and      I know that if I start to talk about me, that's all I'll talk      about, and that's not right, because I'm here to visit you and      listen to you and not me. It's just not something I should talk      about.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was lying, of course. I was ashamed, and she knew it. But she      was also kind enough not to call me on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her brown eyes, bulging slightly from her bony eye sockets and      sunken cheeks, stared into me. Then she reached for my hands and      cleared her throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Whatever bad things have happened to you in your life, whatever      hard things you've gone through, you have to do three things: You      have to accept it. You have to be kind to it,\" she said slowly,      squeezing my fingers together. \"And listen to me. You have to let      it be kind to you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn't understand what she meant. I didn't know how to let my      hard thing be kind to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I had an emergency C-section with my first baby. During the      surgery, the epidural anesthesia failed. I could feel everything,      but the dangerous part was that I was moving while I was still cut      open. The emergency anesthesia I was given is called ketamine, a      drug usually used only on horses, on battlefields, and at raves.      It doesn't work the way a typical anesthetic does, by shutting off      the body's ability to feel pain. Instead, it works as a      \"dissociative anesthesia\"-that is, by severing the mind-body      connection so that you do not recognize pain as such. In other      words, it triggers a psychotic state.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In my unlucky and unusual case, the state wasn't temporary. That      drug-induced psychotic disorder lasted seven months. As a new      mother I was suddenly plunged into a world of hallucinations,      delusions, dissociation, suicidal ideation, and catatonia. I have      almost no memories of my son's first half year of life, and I      slept through the next eighteen months on a cocktail of powerful      psychiatric medications. I got better, with the help of lots of      therapy, drugs, and time. But I lost years of my life to that      psychosis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And I was still deeply ashamed that I had lost my mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I went back to see that dementia patient many times, always      hoping, selfishly, to have another conversation. I wanted to learn      what she'd meant, how she let the bad things that had happened be      kind to her. But she never spoke a single word again. She couldn't      even make or maintain eye contact. She lay in bed or in one of the      huge padded vinyl recliners on wheels that nursing homes use for      patients who have no control over their bodies. The dementia      swallowed her back up. Only a curled-up and constricted body and a      glazed silence remained.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I would sit with her and sing to her, hold her hands if they      didn't look painfully clenched. I don't know if it gave her any      comfort at all. A few months later she died, alone in her dark      room in the middle of the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She likely had no memory of ever meeting me, but I've been holding      on to and thinking about what she said ever since. About the      wisdom to be found in stories like hers, and the kindness to be      found even in our hardest things, even now, in the midst of      living.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ÒMommy.Ó My five-year-old son sighed deeply and looked at the box      of applesauce cups on the counter. He grabbed both my hands as I      tried to make school lunches before work. ÒMy have an idea.Ó This      was always his opening gambit. ÒI know you need to go to work to      make people die, but I really want to go to FriendlyÕs today.Ó He      smiled and nodded. ÒSo? Mommy? Can we go to FriendlyÕs? For lunch?      And ice cream? A make-your-own sundae? With gummy bears and      rainbow sprinkles? You love FriendlyÕs! Yeah?Ó\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Wait wait wait!\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He smiled a kindergarten smile, all gums and no teeth, and kept      nodding his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Back up. What do you think I do at work?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Make people die so they can go to Heaven,\" he said      matter-of-factly. \"But you can do that tomorrow and today we can      go to Friendly's? Right? You love ice cream, too. You love it more      than me. More than anybody. So let's go to Friendly's. People can      die tomorrow.\" He nodded some more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He seemed remarkably calm that his mother was a Grim Reaper in      clogs and pants that were always too snug in the waist, holding      the power over life and death in the same hands that held his      applesauce cup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For the record, I don't make people die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I can't fault my son for not understanding what his mother did      at work. Most people don't really know what chaplains do.      Sometimes even other hospice workers have only a vague inkling,      usually involving holding hands and saying the Hail Mary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've had a hard time explaining it to others myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So I'm a little confused,\" a woman at a book club meeting once      asked as we stood next to a tray of cheese and grapes. \"What does      a chaplain actually do?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We're part of the hospice team, and our role is to offer      spiritual care and support to patients, families, and staff,\" I      said, my standard response, as I piled my plate with crackers and      that delicious herb-crusted goat cheese you only get to eat at      parties.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That means nothing to me,\" she replied. I ate a cracker. She      tried again. \"So tell me exactly what you did today at work.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That day, I had been at a nursing home and had visited half a      dozen indigent patients with end-stage dementia and no families.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e People with end-stage dementia are both the easiest and the      hardest patients of all for a hospice chaplain. Like that      porcelain doll patient, they sit, their tiny bodies curled and      twisted in painful muscle contractions, in those huge padded      recliners on wheels, with stuffed animals to comfort them. Their      eyes, now enormous in sunken sockets, stare into the distance.      Crusts form at the corners of their open mouths. Their skin tears      like a wet tissue. They cannot speak, or walk, or feed themselves.      In the last weeks or months-in a few of the saddest situations      I've seen, even for long, lingering years before they finally      die-they can no longer smile or hold up their heads.","brand":"Riverhead Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303737315557,"sku":"NP9781594634826","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781594634826.jpg?v=1767734094","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/on-living-isbn-9781594634826","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}