My privilege

I am sometimes asked what it is about palliative care that I love.  And today was one of those days that told me exactly what.

After months of organizing, planning, groveling and paperwork I am fortunate to have been able to take 2 weeks away from my practice and home to do some retraining in Palliative care.  (Thanks to fantastic friends, parents, colleagues, in-laws, neighbours and my ever-supportive husband who have all pitched in to make this happen…) I am only 5 days in and already it has been a life-changing experience.

I don’t usually talk about patients on my blog but I was so touched today that I can’t resist.  

Somewhere in a hospital in Hamilton lies a little old lady who, about a month ago, was busy sunning herself in Florida shortly after celebrating her 58^th wedding anniversary.  Today, we told her she was dying.  Quickly.

As we hovered around her checking her urine output and adjusting her IV dose, we discussed her pathology results, her electrolyte balance, her code status and a multitude of other complicated medical-jargon-infused-topics.  We hadn’t told her the grim news yet, but suddenly she raised her arm and grabbed for her husband’s hand.

She couldn’t muster more than a whisper and her husband couldn’t hear anything softer than a shout.  And as she spoke we all stopped and leaned in to hear what she was about to ask,

“Who is this for?” she asked us.  We paused further to listen.  “Is this all for me or for you?”

“It’s for you, of course.  We’re here for you - all of us.  We want to make you comfortable.  We want to help you as best we can. What can we do to make this better for you?”

She wasn’t worried about pain or suffering.  She was only worried about him.

We turned to Henry.  “He’s in good hands,” we reassured her.  “He’ll be OK.” But the tears on his face told us differently.   Without prompting he spoke for the first time in his slow, gravelly voice, “I was supposed to go first.” Shaking his head he added, “all I want is for her to be comfortable.

I can almost guarantee that they hadn’t heard what the other had said.  But as we let their quiet words sink in, they smiled at one another through the tears and we could all see that they understood.

“We will,” we said.  We rubbed his back.  We held her hand.  We promised peace and comfort to both of them.   

Dying is the most intimate process that we go through, and being asked to be a part of it with families is the greatest privilege that I know.  Having had this opportunity to learn the words and skills to make a difference for them is a gift.  That’s why I do palliative care.