He lay there, gasping for each breath like he had finished running a marathon at maximum speed. 83 years old, 6’3”, and weighing just barely 130lbs, he was coming to a finish line of sorts. “How are you feeling, Mr. Jones?” I asked, as I routinely do with all my patients. “Fine”, he said in an almost inaudible whisper, as if with every word spoken part of his spirit escaped. My heart sank as the physical assessment continued. His chest was disproportionately large to the rest of his body. His torso resembled a vintage wine barrel, ruddy and aged over decades. In the distance, masked by the gasping, puffing, and panting, his heart tapped softly. His ankles and feet were swollen and soft, like the mush hidden by the wilted skin of a rotten, blue tomato. I gently palpated for a pulse, but to no avail. I could see death creeping upon him inch by inch. It had reached his knees, judging by the mottling of his skin. His throat was raw with thrush, and when it came down to deciding as to whether to use his mouth for nourishment or breathing, his selfish lungs took precedence over his stomach. “I’ve crushed up your antibiotic pill, Mr. Jones. I think with it mixed in jelly, you’ll be able to swallow it and it won’t taste too bad.” “Could you please give it to me through my IV?” He begged breathlessly. “I’m scared to swallow this.” I was scared for him, but he managed to swallow it. He frantically groped for his oxygen mask. I saw panic pour over him. “There’s nothing coming out of it!” He said between gulps. I rushed over to connect the tubing and quietly watched him embrace the mask in a passionate kiss for his life.
He’d been with him for over 54 years. They were a couple that had been together for so long that they began to look related. Looking at his partner, I wondered if that’s how Mr. Jones looked when he was healthier. He stayed by his bed around the clock. Both of them were so generous and so gracious. When I brought Mr. Jones a warm blanket, he thanked me with such fervor – the kind of passion that’s only possible when it’s likely the last thank-you that you’ll ever say. Even as I was ripping the hairs out of his arm to take off a blood-saturated IV dressing so it could be changed and cleaned, he moaned in agony, but never once complained. When I checked on him for the last time, his partner said to me, “Thank you for taking such good care of him. You’re an angel to us; a true angel.”
He was transferred to hospice that morning, so I’ll never see him again. Though they were appreciative of the care I gave to him, I wish I could have told them how thankful I was for how much they gave me in those twelve hours that I knew them.
He’d been with him for over 54 years. They were a couple that had been together for so long that they began to look related. Looking at his partner, I wondered if that’s how Mr. Jones looked when he was healthier. He stayed by his bed around the clock. Both of them were so generous and so gracious. When I brought Mr. Jones a warm blanket, he thanked me with such fervor – the kind of passion that’s only possible when it’s likely the last thank-you that you’ll ever say. Even as I was ripping the hairs out of his arm to take off a blood-saturated IV dressing so it could be changed and cleaned, he moaned in agony, but never once complained. When I checked on him for the last time, his partner said to me, “Thank you for taking such good care of him. You’re an angel to us; a true angel.”
He was transferred to hospice that morning, so I’ll never see him again. Though they were appreciative of the care I gave to him, I wish I could have told them how thankful I was for how much they gave me in those twelve hours that I knew them.
Disclaimer: The names and identifying information of those discussed has been changed to protect patient privacy.
No comments:
Post a Comment