Last weekend I was on call in hospital and cared for George,* a patient who was entering the last stages of life. George was no longer conscious so the Consultant and I spoke to his family, discussing which interventions to continue and which we felt were no longer benefiting him. Later in the day I reviewed George and found that he had developed respiratory secretions and was in some distress. I stopped his intravenous fluids, prescribed medications to treat his symptoms and reached for the Liverpool Care Pathway. And then I stopped. In the context of the recent press coverage and the LCP review what should I do?
Image from The Guardian
Where do you want to die? How do you want to be remembered? What is it like to be present when someone dies?
Death is a subject that it is often difficult to talk about, but is something we all have in common. On this blog I have shared some of my thoughts and experiences as a healthcare professional, having seen death, dying and grief more than most people I know. I have advocated for more open discussions about the fragility of the human body, the limits of medical interventions, and the freedom to live life to the full that might be gained from embracing it’s finite nature.
As a teacher I believe I have a responsibility to prepare medical students to deal with death and grief, and wonder whether we need new ways to do this effectively. Can sharing our experiences with the public be a learning experience for all? Can the arts and humanities help us to cross the ‘us and them’ doctor-public divide?
I went out last night. It was cold, and just before I left the house I picked up my favourite scarf from the hat-stand. It’s my favourite for many reasons but predominantly because Miriam, who gave it to me, was wonderful.
She’s not here anymore. She committed suicide.
We were not best friends. We weren’t even really very close. She was my boyfriend’s best friend’s girlfriend. We would often be at the same social events, would sometimes have tea together over breakfast, and spent a lot of time together waiting around for ‘the boys’. Miriam was a medical student. One day, in the run up to end of year exams, she left the library where she had been studying, went home and killed herself.
Her death was a huge shock.
Most people I know have never watched a person die. Even those that have been to funerals and therefore have seen and been in physical proximity to a body, have rarely been present at the moment of death. The moment when in the eyes of the dying person the lights go out.
I have been there, in the moment, a number of times and remember every time with eerie clarity. Sometimes I have known the patient well; other times I have only met them in their last minutes or seconds. Sometimes it has been almost ethereally peaceful. Other times it has been frantic, chaotic or distressing despite our best efforts to treat end of life symptoms. Most often it has just happened.
Posted in Death
Tagged compassion, death, doctor, Health care, Hospital, medicine, Nursing, patient, Philosophy, Religion, Ritual
Last week was particularly stressful; marked by staff shortages, anguished relatives, conflict over complex discharge processes, and pressure to create beds. The amount of time I spent with each patient on my ward rounds was less that what I, or they, would have wanted but despite coming in early and leaving late there are only so many hours in a day. In weeks like these I often feel guilty as I leave work that I am unable to give more time to those patients and relatives facing the end of life.
More than many other people I know, I am acutely aware of the fragility of life.
Posted in Death
Tagged C. S. Lewis, compassion, death, doctor, empathy, grief, health, life, medicine, patient, sympathy, time
I had just told Mr George* that his end-stage heart failure had become refractory to treatment, and I thought it likely he would not survive this hospital admission. He looked at me carefully and said, “Well that’s it then. Can’t you just give me something…end it for me?”
This is not the first time a patient has asked me such a question, and will not be the last. Often the question is more ambiguous, and it is unclear exactly what they are asking for: “can you just put me to sleep?” could be interpreted as a plea to end their life, but could equally be a request for a break from their symptoms or thoughts, with the hope of a more energised remaining time afterwards. It is a constant challenge to interpret such questions appropriately and personalise support and treatment for the needs of the individual.