while holding hands

/

Last week I lost a dear patient. Our conversations continue to sink in, shaping my thoughts on love, purpose, and faith. His voice was unique, clear, dark and beautiful. As part of his healthcare team, we mourn but without conventional outlets such as funerals. I want to honor his passing here. I want to honor what our team goes through and the gifts we give and receive.

I wrote this on the day of his death. 

Today my patient died. Yesterday I told him he was going to die. While holding hands, I told him it would only be a short time. It would be peaceful and sleepy. He would be going in and out of consciousness. Eventually it would become very quiet. I promised him he would not be in pain or gasp for air. He looked in my tear-filled eyes, covered my hand with his and nodded. As he lay dying, he comforted me. 

I hate death. I hate people dying. I hate cancer. I hate calling friends and telling them they should come to the hospital now. I hate not being able to get the words out through my tears. He is dying. I hate love ones saying goodbye. I hate he was not conscious by the time they got there. I hate tears. I hate that when you’re sick, crying is so gross and snotty.  I hate agonal breathing and the death rattle. I hate counting the seconds between breaths. Thinking is this it? But they breathe again. I hate friends waiting for that last breath. I hate how that breath controls the whole room. I hate the question how long do you think? I hate being a person of knowledge that knows nothing.

I love watching a young man that has no family surrounded by people who love and adore him. I love listening to those friends tell stories and recount his beautiful and admirable traits. I love watching his girlfriend remove his oxygen mask so she can kiss him. I love people who will surround him in his last moments even when he can’t acknowledge their presence. I love that he didn't have to see their pain, their grief. I love destroyed preconceived notions of how young people should act in such final, heavy moments. I love when hospital rooms are filled to the brim with goodness and warmth making it feel like home. I love roommates that will lovingly take care of funeral arrangements. I love that is unconventional, unexpected. 

I love how coworkers – nurses, NPs, chaplains, social workers, doctors – come together to care for them and for each other. I love doctors who can’t hold it in when saying goodbye to patients. I love doctors who leave parts of themselves. I love hugs in white coats in hallways.

I hate how it makes me miss Marcus. My heart aches. The old ache, the old wound is open and exposed. Raw. Not many things rip it wide open anymore, but yesterday did. To the point where I’m still in my PJs – lost in my day, feeling like I’m lost in life. I know I’m not, but it shakes me.

I hate not knowing where my patient is now. I hate that most of what happens after we die is a mystery to me. I love that most of what happens after we die is a mystery to me. 

I love how my God is big and loving and powerful. I love that when I don’t have answers and know nothing He knows everything. I love how He loves my patients more than I do, how He loves Marcus more than I do. I love that He has given me this rare and precious space in people’s lives that I love and hate so much.