Letting Go of A Loved One

[detrelibre]

I'm in pain, mama. My body is failing me. I've lost my ability to speak. The hole in my throat helps me breathe - the most basic bodily function vital to our survival. The nurse comes in when the blue number on that monitor over there starts falling - he'll know that means that in some way the delivery of oxygen to my blood cells is hindered. My body constantly pulsates with pain, and I can't let you, the nurse, or anyone else know that. So I lay here, lost in the haze of what used to be my mind. Remember what the doctor said? Massive intercerebral hemorrhage. A pipe in my brain burst and the blood flooded and damaged a lot of what was inside. Hearing you sob for me was painful enough - but hearing you cheer me on with hopes that I will somehow get better is gutting. The doctor asked you to make a decision of what should be done if my heart were to stop. You chose the route that would mean everything possible would be done to keep me in this world.

The nurse smiles kindly when he talks to you in the room. But behind his gentle smile I can see the sorrow. He feels deeply for you. I can see him taking our pain and making it part of his own. He turns me, he sets up my tube feeding, he cleans me when I'm wet. He smiles and talks to me knowing I can't respond. He stands by me when I have one of my seizures, ready to intervene if it's one of my big ones. You ask him if there's any chance I'll recover. That question comes from a desperate place in the mind - one that subconsciously knows the painful truth, but does not yet know how to accept it. The nurse pauses, looks down, looks back up at you. I can see him hastily sifting through the words in his mind, trying to find the most gentle arrangement to say to you. He imagines his own mother asking that same question should he ever suffer such a debilitating diagnosis as mine. "I'm not sure," he says almost in a whisper, "right now we should take things day by day". You thank the nurse for his answer, but somewhere you're not satisfied with it.

Letting go is hard. Remember when I was six years old and you and dad taught me how to roller blade? You took me to get a shiny black pair of roller blades and watched and laughed as I ran to the checkout counter. The driveway was our practice spot, and my knees wobbled and shook the first time on my new skates. You told me I should let go of your hand, and I couldn't imagine doing it. Your hand gave me safety, it was the only thing between me and my inevitable demise on those roller skates. But deep down I understood that if I didn't let go, I would never be free to skate around our sun lit neighborhood. And when I finally let go of your hand, I truly understood that when you asked me to let go, it was because you loved me.

I know you want me to stay close to you, mama. But I want you to know that right now, all of me hurts. Every pressure sore, every infection, every time I hear you begging and praying for things to go back to how they were. I'm still that boy you taught how to roller blade, except now it's your turn to let go.

[BeenThere2012, ASN, RN]

I've been an RN for almost 40 years, the past 32 of them as an OR nurse. I've seen it all, been through it all. I was also a Medic for 10 years, seeing more of the stuff nightmares are made out of. Last January, I got a call that my 43 year old daughter's house burned down, & she was badly burned over 85% of her body. I rushed to get a flight to NY, not knowing what awaited me; but nothing prepared me for this sight: my daughter was intubated, in a medically-induced coma, swathed in gauze, Kerlix, & Ace wraps from shoulders to feet. Her face was so red, with the blisters of 2nd degree burns all around. She didn't look like herself. I've taken care of thousands of patients in my career who were terribly sick and/or injured, but it certainly becomes a whole other story when it's your child. All I could do was sit by her bedside in the Burn Unit, stroke her hair, speak constantly into her ear, hold the 1 hand that wasn't totally bandaged. I had such a feeling of deep & utter sadness, for her to be in this condition, her family to lose everything, & I couldn't do anything to fix it, like a nurse & a Mom should.

She had surgery to debride the 2nd & 3rd degree burns after about 5 days. The doc was encouraged, & hoped to start weaning her off the ventilator, & bring her out of the coma in about a week. However, that wasn't to be. As I had surmised all along, they misjudged the thermal & smoke damage done to her lungs by being in the smoky house for too long. She developed pneumonia, despited being on antibiotics prophylatically. Her temp soared to 107, & her organs started shutting down. Urine output was minimal, despite Lasix, & she retained so much fluid she looked totally different. Many meds were administered in attempts to reverse it, but with kidneys shutting down, everything else, it was almost useless. She then coded several times, but came back. A cardio doc spoke with me (her husband was too distraught to make any decisions), they wanted to attempt ECMO as a last-ditch effort to save her, but with only a potential 30% chance it would help. At that point, you know there won't be any good in prolonging your child's life. Brain function would've been questionable after the fever, organ shut-down & cardiac arrests. The Mom in me turned into the RN in me & said DNR. Let her go in peace. I'm in tears right now, because after bringing that child into the world, the hardest thing to do was to let her go out of it. There are no words anyone can say, even we as nurses can only stand by & be there for the family. That decision is a hard one to make, but many times, it's the best one to make. I still wonder if my daughter knew I was there with her, if she heard me. My only consolation is knowing my parents were there to welcome her as her spirit left her body. Heed the words in the original article that started this thread. Like I said, the right decision is often the hardest, & as nurses, support the

family as they go down that path.

i can't imagine anything worse than what you went through. I am so sorry. As a Pediatric nurse I have done the best I Could to help

families say good bye to their children on too many occasions. I have rarely seen them relieved as is often the case when adults die....I am just so sorry for what you went through.

[FranEMTnurse, CNA, LPN, EMT-I]

Please know that my post was not intended to be selfish, so I hope nobody took it that way. Being so sick when I was, took its toll on my family and friends. I have apologized many times for putting them through that.

I too have witnessed many deaths, including finding people deceased when I arrived at their homes. I tried CPR on one, and an ambulance corps crew from the other residence area took over for the other one.

I worked in a nursing home and loved caring for those people, It always hurt when they died, some more than others. In fact, one was a 9 year old boy who died in the ICU post MVA. That incident still remains in my mind.

The thing that gets me the most is the appearance each person has when their soul leaves their bodies. They look so different. You just know there is just a body that's left there.

[BeenThere2012, ASN, RN]

Please know that my post was not intended to be selfish, so I hope nobody took it that way. Being so sick when I was, took its toll on my family and friends. I have apologized many times for putting them through that.

I too have witnessed many deaths, including finding people deceased when I arrived at their homes. I tried CPR on one, and an ambulance corps crew from the other residence area took over for the other one.

I worked in a nursing home and loved caring for those people, It always hurt when they died, some more than others. In fact, one was a 9 year old boy who died in the ICU post MVA. That incident still remains in my mind.

The thing that gets me the most is the appearance each person has when their soul leaves their bodies. They look so different. You just know there is just a body that's left there.

I didn't take your post as selfish. I did see the connection between your story and OP. It does sound like you can use some support, thoughi hope all is well now.

[BeenThere2012, ASN, RN]

When my father was in the final stages of renal cancer after having been in denial for the better part of a year, I was called emergently to be at his bedside. We lived acros the country from one another, and the last time I spoke to him, approx. a month earlier, I was told in a very chipper voice that all was well. I was an LVN in my final semesters of completing my education for RN. One red-eye flight later, my heart racing the entire time, I went directly to the hospital from the airport to find him in the ICU on a ventilator. No one could seem to give me a straight answer. My step-mother was a bag of tears sobbing almost constantly and barely able to speak. I immediately asked for a care conference with his physicians. I was then told he had only been in their care a little over a week, as he fired his previous group of physicians and so they didn't know that much about him. Imagine making the decision under those circumstances with no Advance Directive etc...? All was on me as other family members had no clue, and me, the "Nurse" in the family (not quite), was looked to as if I would/should know what to do. My father's denial robbed everyone from having the support they needed throughout the process, and robbed himself from, well...everything he could have had to alleviate his own suffering. I felt bad for his doctors and nurses trying to do what was best with one arm tied behind their backs. I learned a tremendous amount through that very painful, insecure, confusing situation. We "let him go". It took the better part of a week which was agonizing. The week he "gave us", was actually a good thing as we had time to adjust, grieve, support one another, and come to acceptance.

[blackberry74]

my heart breaks for all of you who shared your personal stories. My reaction to the OP and everyone is many tears, for all of the pain experienced by so many parents. Truly a beautiful, very sad thread.

[detrelibre]

The best part of writing this article has been reading stories of people reflecting on their own experiences with the passing of a loved one. Thank you all for sharing.

[Spiker, ASN, RN, EMT-P]

I too, have been there, done that. My rather long comment is further down this thread, NotReady4PrimeTime. The heartbreak of losing a child makes for a lot of empathy as an RN.

[Spiker, ASN, RN, EMT-P]

Spiker, I am so sorry you had to make that decision, I can't imagine how hard it was, but you made it out of love for your daughter. (((hugs)))

Thank you LadysSolo. Sometimes the best thing to do is to let go, as much as it hurts us.