Legacies Live On

It's crazy how life works ... Within the last two weeks, it has been a rollercoaster of emotions all around me. It's wild to think that while one family is overfilled with joy after the discharge of their son from a month's length hospitalization, two other families are experiencing grief from losing a loved one ... In the midst of all of this, one person can be having their last day of work while another is getting married to the love of their life. I guess we are all in different chapters of our lives. Such emotional tides remind me of life's unwavering ability to change in the blink of an eye. Whether it changes for better or for worse, it is vital to live in those moments of happiness and sadness. To contemplate about past heartaches and treasured memories but never forgetting to feel the present moment. To look forward to the tomorrows that are to come, even without the physical presence of a loved one. We must keep their legacy alive.

That has become the reality for Mrs. S’ family. I’ve only communicated with conscious Mrs. S. after the decision to begin palliative sedation was finalized. “Hello Mrs. S., my name is Cristine. I will be your nurse for the night. Are you ready for me to start the sedation?”, I asked her softly. She nodded yes with tired eyes as she struggled to breathe through her face mask. As I programmed the infusions of Morphine (pain reliever) and Versed (sedative) in their respective pumps, I hear her daughter, her son and her husband wishing her goodbye. Although my eyes were focused on the screens of the IV machines, the sound of her children’s pecks on Mrs. S’ forehead and cheeks filled my mind with vivid images of love and heartbreak.

Given that it was my first time assigned to Mrs. S., the details I knew about her came from the nursing report I had obtained from the previous nurse. She had multiple neurological conditions, namely strokes, brain bleeds and multiple sclerosis (MS). She had been admitted to the ICU after experiencing respiratory distress requiring intubation. Once extubated however, the difficulty to breathe persisted. In turn, this led to much suffering she could no longer bear. Although my lucid interaction with her was short, I quickly began to understand her spirit through her kin.

I came into this family's story at the pinnacle of a stressful period. A time in which convoluted feelings of all involved parties seemed to clash but later, was explained clearly by one that rules them all. Although anger, turmoil and grief resided within the hearts of Mrs. S.' daughter, son and husband, it was their love for her that ultimately led to their acceptance of Mrs. S' wishes. To be free of pain. To achieve peace of mind. To transition to a new life with grace and dignity. To die comfortably.

As the soothing medications began to course through her veins, P.F. (her husband) made one single request to me: "Can I lay beside her in bed for one last night?" As a colleague of mine and I repositioned her to the right side of the bed, P.F. settled beside her. His eyes intently gazing at Mrs. S.' face, soaking in her olive skin and her weekly straightened silky dark brown hair. "God, she is so beautiful", he declared solemnly.

I mentally prepared P.F. for the symptoms to expect as her time runs out. Irregular breathing patterns, gasps, pauses ... I told him to notify me if he saw her in any type of discomfort (excessive use of muscles to breathe, wincing, grimacing, "gurgling"). He asked anxiously how long she had. "I do not know, but given her oxygen levels, she may pass tonight or tomorrow". For the two following night shifts I worked, Mrs. S. was still there. I would lie to you if I said I wasn't at all shocked. In fact, Mrs. S. persisted for another week prior to drawing her last breath.

Within that timeframe, I had heard of the kind of person she was. She was the mother of two young adults who would possibly turn out to be doctors. Despite being diagnosed with a chronic ailment for a decade, she managed to raise two mature and respectful kids. Their demeanor did not fail to prove so. For a few days, Mrs. S.' children slept within the same four walls as their parents. They took turns giving each other the more comfortable setup to rest on (one stretcher chair, one makeshift bed made out of three regular chairs). Peeking through the door hourly and seeing them all asleep (a rare sighting for the first night) was ... peaceful.

On the days I worked the night shift, I would engage in conversations with them all. Yes, speaking to family is a part of the nursing profession, but it also is part of simply being human. At a certain point, it didn't feel like work to me anymore. I had gotten close to them to the point of thinking about this family even when I was not in the hospital. I had grown attached. And although I know doing so would break my heart at the end, it felt like the right thing to do.

In such a short span of time, speaking to P.F. and his kids (M and S) taught me life lessons I can never forget. I learned about love and grief. I learned that I should probably tone it down on the swearing (sorry P.F.!). I re-learned that behind the façade of my patients were people with lives they have touched. I was reminded that we are human, social creatures who can care unconditionally for one another. I was reminded that legacies live on through the people that captured our hearts.

Mrs. S., I am glad to say your legacy will live on through me as well.

P.S. I could have been your adopted daughter if P.F. had signed the paperwork :P

Thank you.

Cristine