My family will tell you I cry easily. Bets are on when I watch a movie with them as to which scene will start the waterfall. But it was not a movie that made my cry the other night.
I am a coroner and I have attended thousands of deaths: at home, on the roadway, in the hospital, in the forest…but I do not cry there. Sometimes it is harder than others not to. I am expected to be the voice of reason and calm in often chaotic scenes. I do not disappoint; I do not cry there.
I am a family physician and I have attended upon thousands of people over more than thirty years: in their homes, in the office, at the hospital, and even on airplanes. Rarely have I come to tears with a patient, only after they have left will I allow the sadness of the news given to flood my mind. I am expected to be strong, calm, in charge, and I should know what to do; have a plan. I do not disappoint.
I practice palliative care in the home and at hospice. I attend deaths to say goodbye to the departed and the families; the latter needing the most attention. I offer words of empathy and sympathy; I remain calm. I try to lessen their distress but not their loss.
The other night…she arrived with her daughter and her son just before 4 o’clock. She is comfortable, the nurse told me, just letting you know she has arrived. I assured her I would be in later. It was 6:30 when I met them. The weather was turning nasty as I entered the hospice. The door to their room was open, I noted, as I took off my boots. The daughter locked eyes with mine, offered a smile, inviting me in. I didn’t bother taking off my coat as I walked in and introduced myself. We shook hands and I met her brother sitting in the chair nearby. So, tell me about your mom, as I glanced quickly at the older woman settled in the bed and sleeping comfortably.
She told me much about her mother, how she had lived on her own, a full life before dizziness changed things. She invited her to come live with her a while as she recovered from the inner ear problem hampering her independence. Soon after, she realized that something was wrong, she was just too listless. After taking her to the local hospital, she was admitted and eventually, she was diagnosed with cancer that had spread to her brain. Treatment followed but it was not working and she was getting weaker. They said she was palliative earlier this month. I kept her at home as long as I could, the daughter said. But, she is not eating or drinking anymore. The nurses put in two ports for pain and seizure medications, and we needed help. We are all ready for hospice.
I listened to the story of this mother and grandmother who had obviously been cared for with much love. Her daughter was impressively well organized in her thoughts as she provided details; her brother added some details as well. They seemed to be working very well together; their mother was fortunate, I thought, as the son walked over to their mother, got a sponge swab wet with water and cleansed her lips and inner cheeks with ease while speaking to her gently. I observed the reaction from their mother, barely a moan, she was deeply asleep. She seemed to be breathing with some effort now.