The echoes of my steps resonated within the expanse of the hospital garage. As I made my way to the end of the aisle to my stall, a couple caught my eye.
A tall man, his hair only beginning to turn grey, faced a woman of similar age, dressed in a beautiful white summer dress. Next to them a car, its trunk agape, half packed with a box of personal belongings and a white plastic bag full of clothes sat waiting. Still, they stood, pausing, ruminating.
They stared longingly into each other’s eyes, a deep seeded pain overwhelming them as tears trickled down their delicate features. A warm embrace as they held each other tightly and wept.
I wondered what terrible tragedy had befell them. Did a loved one’s health take a turn for the worst? Did a loved one just pass away? Did their mother, father, daughter, or son, just perish from this earth? I could not help but wonder.
But it was not my place to ask.
I watched helplessly as they buried their heads in each other’s shoulders and comforted one other.
I continued walking.
My friend, old and passing, said,
“There is more to life than staying alive.
Don’t rescue me too much.”
On his farm, twelve miles out
by rough gravel roads, he is done
with plowing, spraying, harvesting.
But he is not done watching the sun
sink below the windbreak or listening
to the nighthawks above his fields.
Don’t make him move to town.
There is more to tragedy
A Note to His Doctor by Kevin Hadduck.
Poetry and Medicine, JAMA July 2, 2014, Vol 312, No. 1
A narrative piece by docedace.
And I wish I could tell you a story about fancy heroics - about an exploratory laparatomy, a chest thoracostomy, or a patient that coded and I was the last person to perform the chest compressions that brought them back to life. But I can’t. But I can tell you that I saved a life.
For weeks, a patient had been ambivalent, struggling with the decision between full medical care or comfort care only. It was only a matter of time between the disease would make that choice for her.
Everything we could do to prolong her life had been done. There was no process left to reverse. The disease was reaching its ultimate conclusion. With great reluctance, the patient agreed to comfort care.
It pained me to see her struggle because I knew how much it chewed her up inside, to leave behind her family and friends, to be confronted with the threshold of death. It was obvious she loved dearly and was dearly beloved.
I saw her briefly again today after finishing my rounds, passing through our hospice. After seeing her struggle for so many weeks with this decision, I was relieved to find her smiling, having finally found peace in these last hours, surrounded by friends and family. As they gathered to look at old photo albums and share stories under the warm winter glow, her eyes flickered with joy as she laughed with her grandchildren.
For a moment, our eyes met as she caught a glimpse of me by the nursing station. Quietly, we acknowledged each other.
When I was waiting for test results I tried to make up a description in my mind of the consequences of a bad outcome; for myself and then for my wife and my children. For myself it maybe is not too bad - straight to the grave - which is where we all go; even if we think it is too early whenever it comes to that. It is awful, it is difficult to get used to that thought - if you ever are able to…it would be worst for my wife…she is the one who has to take the blow.
When I heard of going to the cancer clinic, I began shivering all over my body. As soon as I opened the door here I felt the smell of the house of death. I can still feel this smell. The word cancer is loaded with fear, I think, and I know some persons who have died of cancer. A tumor is a tumor; uncontrolled cell division, something growing and attacking inner organs.
I react severely to the cytotoxic drugs. I feel so sick, and although I get other drugs to subdue the vomiting, the sick feeling is there, rocking my body all the way. I feel as if I am being run over by a steamroller - my whole body is reacting.
I remember when I woke up from the operation the surgeon told me they had found “islands of outgrowths” in the peritoneum, which was negative news. Something strange happened to me; all anaesthetics and all drugs disappeared from my body, my brain become crystal- clear and I thought: “How can I tell this to my wife?
"Unhook me from these machines. I am going home now and not a moment later."
More than an hour before, I stood by the bedside and watched as the team worked furiously to resuscitate him. Esophageal varices, a cluster of severely dilated and pressurized veins, had been slowly brewing within him over his many years of alcoholism. With the tension of its walls reaching the breaking point, the time bomb had exploded in a torrential gush of blood.
A man struggled with severe depression and suicidal ideations for many years. No amount of counselling, medication, and therapy could lift him from the bleak depths of his own personal hell.
He had been involved in the loss of a life. On a dark and rainy night in the summer of yesteryear in a far and remote place, a car barrelled through a stop sign into his own. He was hurt, but she was gravely wounded. Without phone reception and without a soul in sight, he carried this stranger with him on that lonely road hoping to find help, to find anyone. In that darkness, the stranger died.
Racked with guilt and a sense of helplessness, he spiralled into depression with a burden of having not saved this person from their fate. Every night, the nightmares came; every night, he failed to save her. It was agony.
One day, the doctor tried something new. “I want to you take control of your dreams. Think of new endings to that moment. Let your thoughts carry themselves into your dreams. Change what happens.” The man was puzzled. “Perhaps imagine yourself to be Superman. Fly her to the nearest hospital. Maybe dream up an ambulance.” The man was hesitant to try, but decided with everything else they already did, what was the harm in trying?
"You do not recognize me, do you?" A stranger said to the doctor one day at a coffee shop. He looked up perplexed but suddenly recognized the man he had seen those many months before. It surprised him. The man was smiling, well kept, and spirited. The difference was night and day.
"It worked, doctor. Your dream therapy worked for me. Thank you."
"Did you save her in your dreams? Was that what it took?"
"No. I was never able to save her. But one day some months later in my dream, carrying her as I always did down that lonely road, I heard words she never spoke, but words that helped to give me closure."
"What did she say to you?"
"Thank you for not letting me die alone."