The blood tests were all deranged and matched what I had found on examination. She was dying. I maintain a no surprises policy. I don’t want my patient or their loved ones to be surprised by sudden deteriorations which could lead to death. They needed to know. I had to tell my patient and her gathered family what I feared was happening.
“I’m worried that everything is getting worse. If this continues I think there might not be much time left, maybe only days. I’m sorry to have to discuss this. I think you are dying. I’m going to try my best to keep you comfortable. We haven’t tried the steroid treatment before. I’m hoping that it will help you feel more comfortable.”
My patient was too weak to talk, her face was covered by a towel. Her family said they understood and thanked me for telling them what was happening.
“I’m sorry this is happening, I wish I could stop it.”
I was surprised when my patient reached her hand out to grasp mine.
She said, “It’s okay. Thank you for helping me.”
I swallowed hard and promised I would keep on trying to make her comfortable.
As soon as I left the room the family made arrangements for her child to come in from school. They had to prepare him for what would happen.
Recently I was at a research meeting in my role as a clinical advisor. In the gathering were a number of kaumatua (Māori elders.) We were all asked to share our pepeha, our introduction. Each member of the group was given time to talk about themselves. Where they were from. Who their family of origin was. How did they get to Aotearoa New Zealand. Which mountain and river they are connected to. The kaumatua in the room listened intently to each person’s story and they were actively trying to find connections with their personal stories. It was almost like speed-dating, trying to build rapport, to build connections between previous strangers. The Māori call it whanaungatanga – getting to know each other. Something that is really important for people who are planning to work together.
Again this makes me think about how we do things in the clinical realm. When we first meet our patients and their whānau/family each party are strangers to the other. In Western medicine the getting to know each other is usually one-sided. We want to know as much about the patient as possible without giving away much about ourselves. What would it be like if we introduced ourselves through a pepeha? Would it lead to more opportunities for human to human connection? Could the establishment of rapport possibly lead to the establishment of trust? You know what? I’m going to give it a go. I’ll let you know what I find out in a future post.
I needed a break. After five years of mostly being alone I was tired of having to make too many decisions about what felt like everything. It came to the point that deciding what to write had become burdensome. So I stopped. Cold Turkey. The stories kept on accumulating but I did not write them down. This is the first time I have sat down to write something in three months. I have set my red tomato timer for ten minutes and I will not stop until the timer’s alarm goes off.
I had been consistently showing up for the past two and a half years. I had tried my best not to miss a daily but some had been missed and it was okay. My world did not end. The world did not notice my absence. I needed to drop out and take some time out to think. What to do next? What do I want to do? I still haven’t answered those questions. Instead I focused on self-care. I restarted doing my morning pages, combined with stationary bicycle riding for a dose of exercise and to warm myself during the colder mornings of the Southern Hemisphere’s winter.
I had amassed a collection of these pages over the past year. Initially I had wanted to review them to see what insights I could glean from them. What secrets would the scrawling reveal to me? Nothing. My scribblings were not fit for human consumption they looked more like graphed heart beats. I could not read my own writing. Pages and pages. Book after book of ink-stained etchings. I threw them into the recycling bin, one after another, after another. Release. Relief. Relive.
The patient arrived and looked as unwell as she had sounded on paper. Advanced end-stage illness, worse for wear after many weeks in hospital. Poor sleep night after night. Recurrent bad news relayed, unclear if understanding had been checked on or not. The standard restaurant question, “how’s your meal going?” is not asked in most clinical settings. I was told they appeared wary and slightly suspicious of what we had to offer. They had just met our team, they did not know us, we did not know them. They were assessing us as much as we were assessing them. We were not there to be opponents or combatants. We needed to connect in order to work together on the same team. If it wasn’t for the patient, none of us would be in the same room as each other. We were strangers who needed to try to collaborate with each other.
First impressions count. I relaxed my control of my Kiwi accent and let my inner hometown boy speak. I slipped in as many indigenous words as I knew to make it clear that their culture and traditions were welcome here in our hospice. I mentioned that a Chinese dude would be leading the singing practice the following morning, songs written in their language. “Please join me, I need all the help I can get. I’m tone deaf, I don’t understand what musical keys are, but I am loud. I once had singing lessons, but my wife asked me to ask the teacher for a refund.” The sound of our shared laughter was the background music to our rapport building project.
“We’re going to take things one day a time. We’ll get to know you. You’ll get to know us. We’ll all work together to get our patient/family member more comfortable.”
Trust has to be earned, one interaction at a time. We may only get one chance to connect. Give it your best shot.
We thought she still had weeks left to live. We didn’t know it would only be hours. She died suddenly and the family asked the nurses to perform CPR – cardiopulmonary resuscitation. The nurses calmly and gently refused. They knew it wouldn’t work, she had been too unwell. It would only cause her further harm with no possibility of benefit. Her distraught family’s tears flowed freely.
When we were informed of the sudden death we were surprised but not shocked. We knew she was dying but had not thought it would be so fast. There was nothing more we could do for our patient. She had died. The care package needed to be directed towards the survivors, her family members. We came in to talk to them, to try to explain what we thought had happened. We wanted to try to calm their distress, to try to prevent complicated grief.
We expressed how sorry we were for their loss. We told them we didn’t know exactly what had happened. We thought it was due to overwhelming disease. Nature could not be controlled by us mere humans. It was too much for even the strongest of women to handle, even with the greatest level of loving family support. She had tried her best to hold on to life, but it was not to be. The family accepted our explanations and uncertainty. They did not want her to have any further investigations. There had been too many over the last months.
They said she had loved it in our inpatient unit. She had felt well looked after. She knew we were all trying our best to help her out, and the family too. They laughed when they recounted a story about their loved one’s ultra direct communication style. They hugged us as they thanked us for the care provided. We wished we could’ve done more.
They asked if they could all stay with her overnight. They needed to look after her as per their cultural traditions. They needed to look after each other as a family. It had likely been a long time since the siblings had all stayed the night together with their mother. It was their last chance to all be together as a complete family, as tomorrow she would rest in her final bed. We made a compassionate exception as the family needed to do their duty. They also needed to start their healing process. Bedding and more space were prepared by our staff, as if by magic.
It can never be perfect in palliative care, if it was perfect she wouldn’t have been sick, she wouldn’t have died. Had we done enough? We were trying to do our best to make her comfortable before she died, and we were never going to stop trying. We had listened to her and her family regarding what she wanted and didn’t want. She had died suddenly but peacefully. The family were sad, but they were not destroyed. Life would go on. We had done what we could. We had done good enough.
I’m very sorry for your loss. If I had known how little time she had left I would’ve told you. We operate on a ‘No Surprises’ policy. We want people to know what is going on as they might have important stuff they need to do. That’s why we kept on bringing up heading South. We were worried that time was becoming shorter, but we didn’t think it would be this short.
The Oncologist had said that with treatment she might live for two years, maybe five to ten years, and some people have lived for 20 years. It was a shock this morning when you told us she might only have weeks to months left to live. We cried together this afternoon, then we were both so tired and fell asleep. Dinner had come and she was still asleep. I tried to wake her up but her breathing was strange. It sounded like how my mother’s breathing sounded before she died. That’s when I panicked and called the nurses. They came in to see her and stopped the medication pumps. A few minutes later and she was gone.
I’m so sorry. We always try to warn people when the end is near, but sometimes we don’t get any warning. We were still trying to get her comfortable so that she could travel down South as soon as possible. I’m not sure exactly what caused her death. I think it was her cancer getting much worse. The medication side effects might have had something to do with it, but likely only a small part. The only way we can find out for sure is to arrange for an autopsy, that would tell us what happened. We can make a request if that is something you and the family would want.
No, we don’t want anything more to happen to her. We didn’t know the cancer was so strong.
Yes it was too aggressive. It caused too much pain and distress. It was too much for anyone to handle. She kept on fighting it but it was too much. No more suffering, she was exhausted.
Thank you for looking after her. She really loved it here. She trusted you guys.
I wish we could’ve done more for her. We wanted to get her back down South.
What went wrong doctor? We went out for coffee just that morning. He was okay when I left him. The next day he was raving mad.
The afternoon he arrived when he talked to us, we thought he was joking when he said he thought people were keeping things from him. Later in the night he became confused. The next morning he was agitated. The urine test showed that he had an infection and we started antibiotics. Since then he’s become more unwell with his heart failure and lung disease. We think he’s dying. He’s been very distressed and we need to calm him down.
I’ve told him off because of some of the things he’s been saying.
He can’t help himself. His body has become too unwell and that has made his mind confused. It’s not him saying those things, it’s the illness. If he knew what had been going on he would hate it. We need to calm things down for him, he exhausted but he can’t relax enough to fall asleep. We want to make him more comfortable.
Is he going to recover from this?
No, I don’t think so. It will get worse. We’re not going to hold back when it comes to controlling his symptoms. He will likely become more sleepy if we can make him more relaxed.
Okay, we need to go out and arrange things for the next stage. Can you keep him alive until we come back?
I’m not sure if we can do that but we will make him comfortable no matter what happens.
She stooped as she kissed him on his forehead. “See you soon darling, you keep an eye on everyone while we are out.”
Yes, it could actually be much shorter if she deteriorates faster.
Thanks. We have things we need to prepare.
No matter how long she has got left we will do our best to keep her comfortable.
Thank you.
She’s been an important part of you and your children’s lives.
Yes. It’s hard, it’s the first time we’ve been through something like this.
We’re going to get your mother through this, we’re going to get you all through this. If you have any worries or concerns please share them with us. Our job is to take as much stress out of this situation as possible. Please let us know if there is anything we can help you with.
Thank you. We brought you some cakes.
You brought three cakes, that’s very generous of you.
Yes, one for each of the nursing shifts.
That’s nice of you to think of each of the shifts.
The staff have looked after us all well. Thank you.
That’s what we are here for. We’ll see you later, try and get some rest when you can. Thanks again for the cakes.
Yesterday afternoon she told her story well. She recounted her recent bouts of illness which had culminated in her last hospital admission. She was keen to go home as soon as possible. The way she looked it appeared she had a good chance of making it there. The plan was to optimise her symptom control and then discharge home would be considered. She was in good spirits and was glad to have arrived in our inpatient unit.
The first night was disturbed by worsened pain, agitation and confusion. When we reviewed her the following morning, she was very unwell. This once talkative lady was unable to respond to voice. We diagnosed that she was dying. Generations of the family were asked to gather together to say goodbye to our patient as her time appeared to have shortened. Her medications were adjusted to maintain comfort.
I was surprised when her son told me that his mother had woken up and was talking to her family again. This was in time for the visit by her grandchildren. She enjoyed seeing them, hugging them and talking to them during a nice afternoon. By the evening she was exhausted and drifted off into another restless sleep. She never woke up again.
My science couldn’t explain how this dying lady had gathered what remained of her limited energy in order to be there for her visiting grandchildren. The last hurrah or the final rally is something I have witnessed too many times in palliative care settings. It really is a thing. A person can wake up from a coma to provide a final gift to their loved ones. Yet another mystery we often encounter at the end of life.
Sometimes when situations feel stuck a nudge may be required. A change in mindset or plans may be necessary to escape limbo. Patients who may have been in relative stability might be prepared for discharge. Things cannot continue as they are. Normality can only be paused for so long. Children continue to grow up. School holidays start and finish. Jobs have to be worked. Life has to go on.
We had expected her to deteriorate within days. No one could have predicted she would be alive for weeks let alone enjoying some form of quality of life. She had outlived all prognostication attempts by many weeks and almost months. How? Fantastic support from family and friends. Good palliative care was directed by her wishes. We had promised to listen, to allow her to be the driver. We had kept the promise. To continue her steroid medication while she still enjoyed quality of life, as defined by her. We would wean the medication off if it wasn’t working any more if intolerable suffering occurred, if she was dying.
She made the most of each day. Eating food, drinking her husband’s coffee, and having visits from friends. Visits home for family meals and her favourite drinks including world-famous beers and gins. The four-legged family members had missed their mother so much. She enjoyed time in our garden and often caught some rays in the courtyard. Solid plans were being made for longer, overnight leaves at home. Her husband had been trained to deal with problems that might crop up at home. Everything was being prepared for more time at home.
We had stopped being surprised by her long lack of deterioration. When the final deterioration occurred it came as a shock. A slight cough turned into a likely chest infection. Her swallowing ability had fluctuated markedly over the past weeks. A mis-swallow had allowed food or drink to be breathed into her lungs. This aspiration led to pneumonia. We offered antibiotics and hospital admission. They knew she didn’t want to go back to a hospital, a place of great stress for all of them. No antibiotics, thank you.
When it was clear she was dying they wanted to take her home. They were willing to accept the risk of dying en route as they knew she wanted to die at home. Mission accomplished. She spent her final hours with her family, furry ones included. Mixed in with the many tears of sadness were some scant droplets of relief. She was here until she wasn’t.
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