Where Can I Go?

Steven was seventeen and battling fourth-stage cancer. He was the only child of two parents who placed Steven in a war zone. Steven was in a lot of pain. Physically, emotionally, relationally. His parents were regularly yelling and screaming at each other, day and night. Steven’s pain was so overwhelming that he often self-administered his pain medications because he didn’t want his parents to come into what he called his “bomb shelter.”

His primary doctor had been treating Steven for two years, and because he sensed that something was deeply troubling Steven, he asked me to consider being his therapist and send the bill to him. He also contacted Steven’s parents and asked if I could come and see him, and they agreed.

Steven’s condition was clearly in the advanced stage. After our initial meeting, I knew Steven had only two or three months to live. Before closing that session,  I asked Steven, “You and your doctor had a conversation that was more than medical, moved him to call me and also have some conversation. Steven, I know we have only just met, but I also know that you are running out of time to have a purposeful conversation. Would you be willing to fill me in?”

He stared out his window and then said without any emotion, “I’m really jammed up, and I don’t know what to do about it. I have to get out of here, but I don’t know where I can go. And even if I did know where to go, I couldn’t do it. I just don’t want to live like this any longer. I also don’t want to die like this either. But there’s nothing I can do about it. It is what it is. I’m probably just wasting your time.”

I waited without responding for a couple of minutes. Suddenly, I heard his mother scream, “Go to Hell!” And then his father, “Nooooo, You go to Hell!”

It was then Steven’s comment began to make sense.

I said, “This goes on all the time, doesn’t it?”

“Day and night, 24-7,” replied Steven. “And then they come in here, and they’re all so sweet and nice. As if nothing has happened. As if my hearing is incapable of functioning. Dr. Bill, I don’t know how many times I have heard them scream at each other, ‘As soon as he’s dead, I’m out of here!’ Followed by, ‘Good riddance. It couldn’t come sooner!’”

“Dr. Bill, I feel like I’m homeless! If it weren’t for my doctor and now, maybe you, I have no one I feel safe with.”

"Steven, you need to understand what I’m about to say. What you shared with me stops right here. What you share with me will remain completely confidential. I will not tell your parents what just occurred here. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Anything?” he questioned.

“Anything,” I answered.

“Having said that,” I added, “I want to suggest you consider permitting me to discuss your case with your primary doctor. He’s one of your biggest fans, Steven, and he has a deep concern for your welfare. I think he would be an even better physician for you if we kept him current with where you are emotionally with not only your cancer but also your home life.”

“Dr. Bill,” said Steve, “I don’t have a home. I live in a prison with two adults who are in this prison as well. My death will be the key that will unlock our prison doors.  No, Dr. Bill, I have no home and I have no hope for a home.”

“Steven, would you consider changing your definition of the place we call “home?”

“Why? It’s just a place where you live. Is it different?”

“Steven, it’s time for me to go. Would you allow me to come back tomorrow?”

“I hope you will, but I get the feeling you’re going to give me homework.”

“I’m going to wait for you to say, ‘pardon the pun.’ That’s exactly what you are to do. When you think of ‘home’ what words would you use to describe it without describing a physical building? What do you not have now that you want to have to get you through this last chapter of your life? Yes, Steven, this is the last chapter. Define what home can be for you within the limits you are given and let’s see if it can happen. Because if it’s possible, I’m going to find a way for you to know and experience ‘home.’ Do you understand, Steven? I may fail but I don’t think so. Help me to know what you mean by ‘home’ and then let’s get to work to make some or all of that happen.”

“Wow! You sure get passionate about a four-letter word! Home, that is. Okay! I’ll do the homework, so to speak. You’re asking me to take on a task that pushes me to be truthful and honest instead of pretending like I do most every day around here.”

“I’m asking you to take you seriously. I do. Your doctor does. Together we may all learn something. Do you think that’s possible, Steven?”

“I already have, Dr. Bill. You’ve also helped me to own another four-letter word.”

“Really? And what might that be, Steven?”

Together, we said, “Hope.”

Steven and I would meet nearly every day. Seeing a client that often has its risks. I had a team that helped to avoid many of them. My music therapist came regularly to work with him. He fell in love with her. I had a “spiritualist” who taught Steven about “centering” and meditation and the art of breathing that will touch your soul. Steven and I would journal and he discovered that what he wrote would still be here when he was gone. He had so much to say to those he would leave behind. My job was to help him write so that they would read it without judgment.

When I knew he was coming close to the end his doctor and I conspired.

“Steven, what do you need?”

“Dr. Bill, you have given me a sense of what it means to have a home. You, your staff, my doctor, and his staff. You are the family I needed. But this place is still a living hell.”

“Steven, your doctor and I have a plan. We want to suggest you come into the hospital and let you live out what it means to you to be home. A place of peace, a place committed to healing and caring. A place where you are safe. Your hospice caretaker can continue to give you basic care. Your doctor has been able to persuade your medical insurance carrier that you need immediate hospitalization. So what do you say? Are you ready to get out of here?”

“Dr. Bill, do you realize what you have done? Before I knew you, all I wanted to do was die. But now, I want to live as long as I can. Every day, you bring me someone or something that pushes me to want to live.   And now, I get to die in a place where I can live until I die. Thanks, Bill”

“Dr. Bill, Steven. Remember?”

“I know. Boundaries.”

Together, we smiled, followed by a hug.

Steven was admitted to the hospital three days later. I was shocked to see how fast the cancer was taking over. His lungs were full and his breathing was labored, let alone talking became a challenge. His parents came with him and dramatically doted over him. But then they left. Incredible! They left!  

I had been permitted to work with the nursing and supportive staff to understand that Steven was coming “home.” They were to be his home until his death. They were to call him Steven whenever they could. Even the cleaning lady, food server, and security guard were to acknowledge Steven. To say, “Good morning, Steven.”  Good night, Steven.”

When Steven came into the area where his room was located, nearly every staff person came to him, introduced themselves, and welcomed him. “Glad you’re here, Steven.” And one of them even said, “Welcome home, Steven. Welcome home.”

I decided to spend the nights with Steven. His parents usually left by six and the hospital wing was beginning to wind down. It got quieter, softer, like home. Steven and I would talk for just a few minutes at a time. It was all he could do.

“It’s soon isn’t it, Steven?”

“Yes. I’m ready for the next journey. It’s crazy, but I’m not afraid. I feel safe now. Thanks, Dr. Bill. And thank all of your staff. That music therapist is gorgeous.”

“My God, you are seventeen, aren’t you? Way to go Steven. I’ll be sure to tell her that you loved her flirtatious music.” I caught him smiling for just a moment.

“Sleep, Steven. I’m going home to shower. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

I went home showered and changed. I sat down and journaled. I fell asleep. I suddenly woke up as if someone was trying to wake me. I had slept for more than three hours. I leaped up and quickly drove to the hospital. I came into Steven’s wing and the doctor on call was coming out of Steven’s room. I knew why he was there.

He said, “He went quietly. He died when no one was around.”

“That’s Steven.” I said. “He wanted to do this alone.”

I know this will be difficult for some who have read this, but I believe Steven found hope again. I think this because he gave me so much hope. Hope, like love, can only be given by those who have it to give.