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A story written by Jayson Stone-the husband of a hospice nurse named Becky.
Becky is a Hospice worker for Horizon Hospice, located in Spokane, WA. She has had the "Hospice" calling for many years and finally decided to answer that call in what will be 4 years this February. Not too many people can do what hands-on hospice workers do. She is Hospice / Palliative care certified and has worked in the care-giving field with the elderly & disabled for 40 years, starting at the age of 15. The only downfall of the profession is that the rate of pay which is far below a "living" wage. It’s a shame that an athlete can be paid millions while those who are trusted with the care of our sick and aging cannot make enough to even take care of life's basic needs. Then again, we live in a country where a pizza can make it to your house faster than an ambulance.
The story Jayson wrote is based on his wife’s experiences.
Inspired thru experiences by: Rebecca Stone
Written by: Jayson J. Stone
I live out of town in the mountains on the shores of a lake.
Each morning I depart into a new day, often times greeted on my way out by the various species of wildlife that inhabit the surroundings that I call home. Neither they nor I know what I will encounter on this day, who I will meet…Who I will greet for the first time…or say goodbye to… for the last.
I drive between 80 and 125 miles per day. It may be to a destination off of a rural highway or it may be in a neighborhood in the heart of town or suburbia. I will be in and see many different neighborhoods in my daily journey.
It doesn’t matter what shape these neighborhoods are in or the homes that make them what they are…for they are, none the less what their inhabitants call home.
Each of these homes has a door and beyond that door dwells a story…as individual as the home itself. Some of these doorways have no meaning to me while others will find their way into my heart and my memory. Not so much the doorway itself, but what lies beyond when I find myself welcomed across the threshold. And still, for a short time, I am a stranger…but not much longer.
It is then that I begin to hear a story, the story…their story. I am welcomed into their lives and for a time, as of not yet determined…by me or anyone else for that matter, I become relevant in the lives that occupy this dwelling.
With me they share their stories of the past from which they emerged. Stories of children and grandchildren. Of achievements…of trials and tribulations that made them who they are…that made them unique. I hear passages of triumph, tragedy and achievement… feats of relevancy and necessary strength that this particular human spirit was designed for.
This is what makes the doorway unique from all the rest.
Now I know the gift of the story….and the gift that has been bestowed upon me to be a part of it, if only for a brief moment by comparison. Now I get a brief glimpse of the person or persons that dwell beyond the threshold.
Through divine order and a special calling, our team assembles with the utmost tender loving care and a supporting approach to the task at hand. We operate in unison for a specific purpose …that no one should ever have to make their transition alone and in discomfort.
Then comes the inevitable sadness and sorrow…normally accompanied by “Where do we go from here, what do we do now??” And in their silent prayer they ask…”how do we go on?” …a question that neither I, nor anybody else except time can answer…a question that will inevitably answer itself.
I am racking up the miles on my car…we all are…but I don’t care. This is what we do…This is what I do…This is our calling…this is my calling…
…For we are Hospice.
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