Feeling the Pain

I recently spent a short time with my dear “cool cat”—a man with the wit, humor, and intelligence that most people only imagine or glimpse through a scripted television personality. I am privileged to enjoy the percolating mind of this man on a regular basis. He is full of funny jokes and true tales of life and celebrity. He is my best companion for conversation and review of current events.

A few days ago I could see that he wasn’t well, not himself, in a bad mood, short-tempered, and sad. I asked him if he was feeling down, and he readily admitted that he was. I quickly learned that he was experiencing intense physical pain from his arthritis, and that he was so depressed he was having suicidal thoughts and had been for days. He told me that he had expressed his depression to the psychologist in his living facility, but there had been no response in terms of his medical care.

I talked to the medication tech about his arthritis. She acknowledged that she knew he was in pain and agreed to arrange for him to get routine dosages of Tylenol. I arranged for the physician to order an anti-depressant, and the doctor acknowledged that he knew the cat was usually pretty funny.

It was shocking to consider this incredible scene from the outside looking in. The cat is in the best facility money can buy, with aides and nurses as good as anywhere in the industry. They all knew that he was in physical pain, that he couldn’t even lift his arm to the piano keys when they begged for him to play a tune, but it occurred to no one to do something about it. They know his typical humor, his flair for entertainment; he had told them himself that he wanted to die. But no one suggested a treatment for or response to his depression.

Time after time I find myself with families who are rightfully expecting that the professional staff and caregivers will inform them and offer an appropriate response to the needs of their parent. Over and over I find myself advocating for the one in pain, for the family desperate to see their loved one comfortable again, and for the whole complicated system. This system is being neglected and sabotaged by apathetic players—people so disengaged that they have no empathy and no way to feel the pain of the people they spend all of their working hours with, the people they have obliged themselves to care for in the most intimate and basic way.

I am at a loss. How do I kindle empathy and compassion? It would not be fair to say, “They don’t care,” because I know they do. But what now?