In these earliest days of what would become known as the birth of thanatology—or the study of death—my greatest teacher was a black cleaning woman. I do not remember her name, but I saw her regularly in the halls, both day and night, depending on our shifts. But what drew my attention was the effect she had on many of the most seriously ill patients. Each time she left their rooms, there was, I noticed, a tangible difference in their attitudes. I wanted to know her secret.
Desperately curious, I literally spied on this woman who had never finished high school but knew a big secret. Then one day our paths crossed in the hallway. Suddenly I was coaching myself to do what I always told my students to do: “For heaven’s sake, when you have a question, ask it.” Summoning all my courage, I walked directly up to this cleaning woman, a confrontational sort of approach, which I’m sure startled her, and without any subtlety or charm I literally blurted out, “What are you doing with my dying patients?” Naturally, she became defensive. “I’m only cleaning the floors,” she said politely, and then walked away. “That’s not what I’m talking about,” I said too late. For the next couple of weeks, we snooped around each other suspiciously. It was almost like a game.
Finally, one afternoon she confronted me in the hallway and then pulled me behind the nursing station. It was a sight—this white-clad assistant professor of psychiatry being dragged off by this humble black cleaning woman. When we were completely alone, where no one could hear us, she bared her life’s tragic history as well as her heart and soul in a way that was beyond my comprehension.
From Chicago’s South Side, she grew up amid poverty and misery. Her home was a tenement where there was neither heat nor hot water and children were always malnourished and sick. Like most impoverished people, she had no defenses against illness or hunger. Children filled their aching bellies with cheap oatmeal, and doctors were for other people. One day her three-year-old son got very sick with pneumonia. She took him to the emergency room at the local hospital, but was turned away because she owed ten dollars. Desperate, she walked to Cook County Hospital, where they had to take indigent people. There, unfortunately, she ran into a roomful of people like herself, people seriously in need of medical care. She was instructed to wait. But after three hours of sitting and waiting her turn, she watched her little boy wheeze and gasp and then die while she cradled him in her arms.
Although it was impossible not to feel the loss, I was struck more by the manner in which this woman told her story. While deeply sad, she had no negativity, no blame or bitterness or resentment. Instead there was a peacefulness to her demeanor that startled me. It was so odd, and I was so naive then, that I nearly asked, “Why are you telling me all this? What does it have to do with my dying patients?” But she looked at me with her dark, kind, understanding eyes and answered as if she was a mind reader. “You see, death is not a stranger to me. He is an old, old acquaintance.” Now I was the student looking at the teacher. “I’m not afraid of him anymore,” she continued in her quiet, calm and direct tone. “Sometimes I walk into the rooms of these patients and they are simply petrified and have no one to talk to. So I go near them. Sometimes I even touch their hands and tell them not to worry, that it’s not so terrible.” She was then silent.
Not long after, I promoted this woman from cleaning woman to my first assistant. She provided the support I needed when it did not come from anyone else. That alone became a lesson that I have tried to pass along. You do not need special gurus to grow. Teachers come in all forms and disguises. Children, the terminally ill, a cleaning woman. All the theories and science in the world could not help anyone as much as one human unafraid to open his heart to another.
Elizabeth Kubler Ross - The Wheel Of Life
