I watched someone die today. It's been a while since someone has died in front of me for non-traumatic reasons. Usually, I get called in after the fact in order to register their death with the government. However, today, they just happened to die while I was there. And I stood there, and did nothing. Nothing, while her daughter held her hand and said goodbye; nothing, while the nurse stroked her head and told her to stop fighting and let go; nothing at all. Gasping and grasping at her last breaths over the course of about twenty minutes, we all stood there, watching her die. Slowly, inevitably, crawling towards death.
And, I must confess, I felt very little. What is it about the medical machine that removes emotionality? Is it I, or the system, or something other, that has carefully dissected away my heart from my head?
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these months on a palliative care team have been an education in the "therapeutic relationship," especially in light of the counselling course I took in the fall. I didn't even know, until yesterday, that we had a crash team in-house.
What makes me ol' eyes mist up is seeing the family that had fought with me for "daily therapy! can't you see, he's getting weaker!" has been sitting quietly and reading from the Psalms. Or the client at home who doesn't know her glioma is inoperable, she's just off from mat leave and her husband is selling the car to pay for a caregiver.
how would you pray for these patients?
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