"It doesn't get easier, does it?"
He looked at me with warm, misty eyes.
He understood, and his heart was grieving for this loss as well.
"No. No it doesn't."
...
Mr P always had the kindest eyes, and such a gentle spirit about him.
Ever since I went to review him that first evening many weeks ago now, he's remembered who I was. I can still imagine vividly him lying on the bed, his stockings pulled up to his knees and his nasal prongs (for oxygen) half taped up because one nostril was always blocked. I often felt compelled to stop for a little chat every time I walked past bed 4, and watch his face light up as he saw his unexpected visitor. "Thank you doctor," he'd always say gratefully even though all I did was talk to him for a bit.
Mr P didn't have good lungs. They were horribly scarred and he had been slowly deteriorating over time, finding it more and more difficult to simply breathe.
And then I stopped going to see him, because I got caught up with other jobs, other patients, and other responsibilities.
He eventually went home.
I came back from work last week after my week off, and found out he was back again, and that this time we were certain it would be his last ever hospital admission.
I debated for days whether or not I should go and say hello, in part feeling guilty for not having spoken to him more in my free time and walking past bed 4 hurriedly, in part not wanting to overstep my professional boundaries, and in part, once more.. caught up with other things to do.
I knew I had limited time though, and that if I didn't say something then, I might never get the chance to anymore.
Then two days ago, he complained of a slight blocked nose. In a circle full of present doctors, I volunteered first to be the one to review him.
"Hello Mr P, I haven't seen you in a while."
And with his same kind eyes, "Oh hello dear. Yes it's been a while, and yes, I remember you."
...
I walked past his room this evening and looked inside - he lay asleep peacefully in bed softly snoring, settled with the help of morphine and midazolam, and kept comfortable with his half-taped nasal prongs delivering supplemental oxygen.
If I'm being honest.. I was hopeful that I wouldn't have to do it.
I was hopeful that I'd get to hand over and walk out the hospital tonight without having to call a time of death.
But, as fate would have it, I found myself back in that room once again later tonight.. this time blinking back tears while looking at a body without a soul - the remnants of a life well lived.
...
Sometimes I wonder if I'm cut out for this, if I'm strong enough.
Like my colleague put it ever so honestly, it doesn't get easier. It doesn't get easier to look at a pale corpse and remember what it was like to interact with them hours or days ago.
It's not that I am unable to accept reality or that I wished my patients would live forever.. but there's always that pang of sadness that hits when death comes and leaves its gaping loss.
Once more I grieve, letting the healing process slowly begin again. But tonight I am blessed to have not been alone, to have seen it in the tear-stained eyes of my patient's faithful nurse - we're only human, and I know how you feel.
...
Goodbye, Mr P.
He looked at me with warm, misty eyes.
He understood, and his heart was grieving for this loss as well.
"No. No it doesn't."
...
Mr P always had the kindest eyes, and such a gentle spirit about him.
Ever since I went to review him that first evening many weeks ago now, he's remembered who I was. I can still imagine vividly him lying on the bed, his stockings pulled up to his knees and his nasal prongs (for oxygen) half taped up because one nostril was always blocked. I often felt compelled to stop for a little chat every time I walked past bed 4, and watch his face light up as he saw his unexpected visitor. "Thank you doctor," he'd always say gratefully even though all I did was talk to him for a bit.
Mr P didn't have good lungs. They were horribly scarred and he had been slowly deteriorating over time, finding it more and more difficult to simply breathe.
And then I stopped going to see him, because I got caught up with other jobs, other patients, and other responsibilities.
He eventually went home.
I came back from work last week after my week off, and found out he was back again, and that this time we were certain it would be his last ever hospital admission.
I debated for days whether or not I should go and say hello, in part feeling guilty for not having spoken to him more in my free time and walking past bed 4 hurriedly, in part not wanting to overstep my professional boundaries, and in part, once more.. caught up with other things to do.
I knew I had limited time though, and that if I didn't say something then, I might never get the chance to anymore.
Then two days ago, he complained of a slight blocked nose. In a circle full of present doctors, I volunteered first to be the one to review him.
"Hello Mr P, I haven't seen you in a while."
And with his same kind eyes, "Oh hello dear. Yes it's been a while, and yes, I remember you."
...
I walked past his room this evening and looked inside - he lay asleep peacefully in bed softly snoring, settled with the help of morphine and midazolam, and kept comfortable with his half-taped nasal prongs delivering supplemental oxygen.
If I'm being honest.. I was hopeful that I wouldn't have to do it.
I was hopeful that I'd get to hand over and walk out the hospital tonight without having to call a time of death.
But, as fate would have it, I found myself back in that room once again later tonight.. this time blinking back tears while looking at a body without a soul - the remnants of a life well lived.
...
Sometimes I wonder if I'm cut out for this, if I'm strong enough.
Like my colleague put it ever so honestly, it doesn't get easier. It doesn't get easier to look at a pale corpse and remember what it was like to interact with them hours or days ago.
It's not that I am unable to accept reality or that I wished my patients would live forever.. but there's always that pang of sadness that hits when death comes and leaves its gaping loss.
Once more I grieve, letting the healing process slowly begin again. But tonight I am blessed to have not been alone, to have seen it in the tear-stained eyes of my patient's faithful nurse - we're only human, and I know how you feel.
...
Goodbye, Mr P.
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