Sometimes, a family member's behavior is so clouded by the grief and shock of a loss that we must be courageous enough to practice outside the box.
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My patient had been ejected from his car after hitting black ice. His prognosis for any recovery was a hairs-breath above zero. We knew he would never again walk this earth.
The family was large and streamed in and out of the room. All were polite and respectful. The wife dutifully provided explanations and "stability" for the large family and the throng of visitors.
From the periphery, I observed her. She kept her emotions in check, only occasionally tearing up. It almost seemed she were "hostessing" the "event". But her slow-motion movements belied a simmering grief that needed to be processed.
Having worked in ICU for ten years, I knew there was nothing humanly possible to change his course. I knew soon his heart--the heart that beat for so many years in unison with the woman--would stop, and the body that warmed her would grow cold, and the soul that united them and breathed life into her, would slip away.
The family and friends were "there" for the wife but they seemed unaware of the need I saw simmering just beneath her expression. And as the people kept calling I could sense a growing need within her. She began seeking my approval about letting anyone else in. I told her these would be the last. There was something we needed to do. The final visitors let the others who had gathered in the waiting room know that visitations would now cease.
I led the woman into the room. I rearranged the mechanical lines of life support and gently pulled the husband over to one side of the bed. I let down the rail.
"You need to lie beside him," I said.
She looked at me with utter astonishment. It was as if I had just told her I could bring transport her back to the day before when her husband was home and alive and this place never existed. Her tears streamed down her cheeks. She cried and cried as I helped her in beside him.
I assured her she would not be disturbed by anyone, for any reason. She could emerge from the room when she was ready and could stay as long as she needed. I would guard against any disturbance.
I covered her with a blanket and put chairs against the bed as a reminder to her that the railings were down. I handed her the call bell and closed the door and curtains behind me.
Some weeks later I received a letter from her. She had difficulty describing the torrent of emotions that enveloped her while she lay with her husband that final afternoon of his life. But she said that being able to fully embrace him provided her comfort and peace that would warm her for the rest of her life.
It's so simple, yet too often we lose focus on what really matters.
Have the courage to let your humanity lead the way.
