Tonight though, I went to the visitation of one of two of my patients who passed this week. It never ceases to amaze me how willing people are to accept me into their most difficult times of life.
This family was a treat to work with - all on the same page, very open about their concerns and their feelings, funny, realistic. They clearly love their mom. There were no arguments about DNR status or any parts of care. They were touchy, huggy, and generally lovely to be around. We were all grateful that their mom went so quickly. No one ever wants someone as funny and sweet as this woman to spend a long time dying.
She made me giggle when I first met her on admission to the hospital. She asked me 5 times in less than half an hour where her cell phone was. It was safely tucked under the stretcher. She had survived a few re-occurrences of her colon cancer, but this one was causing mediastinal widening that was making it very difficult for her to breath. It didn't take long before we realized this would be her last battle.
It seemed like a natural thing for me to go to the funeral home tonight. It's something you do for people you care about. I recognise that I've known this family for less than a month, but we've spent important moments together and I like them. They were very grateful to see me and said that it was a big deal for me to come.
That threw me off.
I always feel like I'm intruding on someone else's space at things like this. All I wanted to do was pass on my condolences and thank them for letting me be a part of their mother's care. They needed to talk though.
I forgot how little the closest family to the deceased gets to talk during visitations. Everyone else wants to share stories and reminisce and generally, I think, make themselves feel like they belong there. I had very little to say except that their Mom made me giggle. It gave the family room to talk about how the death had affected them. Up to this point, our relationship had mostly been me finding out more about Mom, more about the family's relationships with each other and passing on the care plan to the family. We were talking mostly about things in the past and items on our collective to-do list of death. Aside from reminding them to take care of themselves by sleeping, eating fruits and veggies and remembering to drink water, we didn't talk much about the affect of death on the family.
The brother was focused on his Mom's last 10 minutes. In his line of work, he had been witness to many deaths. He was expecting the worse. Up until Mom's last day, he and his sister had not been alone together in the hospital room. It was clear by Mom's laboured breathing that her death was going to be close. The pair decided to stay with Mom, talking about their childhood and letting Mom know they were there. Quietly, peacefully, Mom just stopped breathing. It was the most peaceful death the brother had ever witnessed and it was obviously very important to him. We both teared up.
Sister was blown away by the caring provided by the nurses in the hospital. She felt welcomed and safe there and knew that Mom was being well cared for during her last days. Even when Mom kept forgetting where her cell phone was, one of the nurses would point it out for her. It was important to sister that I pass that onto the nurses. One nurse in particular found some legal documents that had been left in the room by the family. Worried that it might cause the family more grief when they realised it was missing, she drove to the funeral home after her night shift to make sure the family would have the documents in a safe place. This act of compassion, empathy and kindness was overwhelming to sister and to me, and we both cried a little.
Brother in law wanted to thank me in particular. That seemed strange to me. I was just the resident making sure we ordered the best meds and protocols so that Mom would be comfy. Apparently, I also hugged sister when she needed it, touched Mom when I talked to her and generally shut up and listened to what the family needed. He explained his theory about people not communicating as much know as they used to and that he hopes I can mentor other docs to share a bit of myself with patients and their families by putting myself in their shoes. He was also very grateful that we never tried to push our own agenda. At every step we checked in with Mom and her family to find out what would be the best plan for all.
This time, just I cried. It was the nicest compliment I've ever received. And then I had that nagging feeling again, that I was an Impostor among these wonderful people, sapping energy that they should be funnelling into their own grief and healing. That's when father in law thanked me for letting the kids talk, and I felt useful again.
Suddenly I remembered the cell phone. I asked sister where Mom's cell phone was.
She giggled and said it was in her hands in the coffin. Mom will always know where her cell phone is now.
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