Sleepover with Connie

In the early days at the residence on Page Street, one of the first patients I cared for was a young woman named Connie. She was an ex-addict, angry, and street tough. In those days, volunteers stayed overnight on the 8pm to 8am shift. Alone in the house with her, I pulled out a futon and spent the night with Connie in her room. It was sort of a grown ups’ sleepover, only a sleepover with someone who has a terrible illness and is in a lot of pain. I found it difficult. I liked Connie.

When you spend time like that, you sit around and talk. I discovered she had a similar family background to mine.

I remember a defining moment one night. Connie woke up in huge pain; I could see it in the distracted expression in her eyes. I felt helpless. It was raining heavily. It was pouring down. I was helping her with her medication and she said, “Is that the rain?” It was as if her voice came from a long way away to that moment of stillness as we listened, together, to the rain bouncing off the roof. Two people, alive and listening to the night sounds. Such a simple moment but it transcended the fear and helplessness that was going on for both of us.  

It was so natural. You couldn’t make something happen. And it was, for me, the first time I understood the possibility that care giving is something that sustains the giver as well as the one cared for.