Saying Goodbye
Death is a curious thing. Some fear it, some long for it, some temporarily defy it, but no one can escape it. In working for over two years now as a CNA, I have seen at least a hundred deaths, each affecting me in a different way. Watching patients pass away brings the beliefs and understanding of the afterlife of the aide to the surface very quickly. It is a test of faith. I've watched aides respond in all different ways to death, from crying, to refusing to enter the room, to a quiet acceptance of an inevitable part of life. This week taught me about myself as death approached our facility.
This patient had been miserable, she was on hospice and expected to die soon, and had reasoned to herself that we (the nursing staff) were keeping her alive through our efforts, so soon all our services were being refused. Showers skipped, toileting ignored, meals sent back, and pleas that we help end her life were an hourly occurance. She was begging every staff member that entered the room to assist her in any way to end her existence here, telling us to remove her oxygen, etc. Of course we didn't, and I tried to explain to her that since she was still here, there must be a reason for that, and we needed to try to find out what that reason is.
She stopped, stared me in the eyes and said "But I don't want to be here. I want to die." All I could say was that I was sorry, and after a moment left the room. Three days later I was at work, it was a busy night, and so I hadn't even been down to that end of the building yet. Dinner came up, and I went in with her tray, and she was positioned partially upright in the bed, and looked like she was dozing, so I came in and said "Hi!" in her direction. Her daughter turned to me and said "She has been in a coma for a while now." Turns out that morning she had been up taking her pills and was very alert, then by the afternoon she was comatose. Her daughter and son kept a vigil by her side the rest of the night.
Around 6:30pm the call light went off for her room, so I went in and she was twitching and jerking, and her daughter asked that I get the nurse to get her liquid morphine. She passed at 7:10pm. Periodically throughout the evening I had been offering drinks and snacks to the family as they sat by her side. They always declined, but I have done this for many families, and they always seem to appreciate that the staff isn't scared to enter the room, and that their family member hasn't been forgotten, so I continued coming hourly to check on them.
Her hospice nurse was coming in to prepare the body, and we as aides were told to be on standby to assist and learn the procedure for future deaths. Because her nurse was delayed, I and another aide now had the task of putting a rolled up towel under her chin to keep her jaw from stiffening while being open, so we apologized as we entered, asked permission to work, finished and left quietly. An hour later, the nurse arrived and admitted that this would be the first body that she had ever prepared and didn't know what to do. With our nurse giving direction, I became the care giver in charge of preparing the body.
Preparing a body is, despite what you would think, a peaceful thing. I never knew that for me, the grieving process is very easy if I am allowed to be a part of the preparation and final caring for of the patient. When preparing the body for the mortuary to come and take it, we bed bath the patient, dress them in new clothing, drain the bladder as best we can, do oral care, comb their hair, etc. to make them look nice for the family to re-enter the room to pay final respects, all while carefully handling the body to prevent bruising.
As we stood back and allowed the family to re-enter the room with the mortuary coming in right behind, I hoped to heaven we hadn't forgotten to do anything and that they thought she looked okay. Her daughter came in, reached over the bed and gave me a huge hug and said "Thank you so much. Everyone here has been nice, but you have been special. Thank you for taking such good care of her and us."
That is the moment every aide lives for. It's why we work hellish hours, our feet and legs swollen and aching, running for light after light, from patient to patient, filling waters, cleaning teeth, massaging sore muscles, tucking into bed, encouraging the discouraged, sorrowing with the mourners, and rejoicing with the joyful, in the hopes to leave at the end of the day knowing that you eased suffering and did God's work as He would do it, as Jesus did while He was here. It is His example I try to follow as I enter each room, and it is the words she spoke that night that every aide longs to hear; that they have made a difference, and that their efforts were not overlooked or in vain.
There is a nurses prayer that I love very much, I don't know who it is written by, but it speaks the prayer of an aide as well:
Dear Lord, please give me strength,
To face the day ahead.
Dear Lord, please give me courage,
As I approach each hurting bed.
Dear Lord, please give me wisdom
With every word I speak.
Dear Lord, please give me patience,
As I comfort the sick and weak.
Dear Lord, Please give me assurance,
As the day slips into night.
That I have done the best I can,
That I have done what's right.
This week was my last week at work before I move away to school, but I will continue to tell stories from my memories as the weeks pass. This is a picture of my suitcase, complete with stethoscope and BP cuff.
I show this picture because we take our experiences, our stories with us wherever we go, just as I take my tools with me, because they become a part of us, they define us and make us who we are. I will be taking those memories with me, and I will continue to share my memories with you as I work towards my nursing degree. God be with you til we meet again
This patient had been miserable, she was on hospice and expected to die soon, and had reasoned to herself that we (the nursing staff) were keeping her alive through our efforts, so soon all our services were being refused. Showers skipped, toileting ignored, meals sent back, and pleas that we help end her life were an hourly occurance. She was begging every staff member that entered the room to assist her in any way to end her existence here, telling us to remove her oxygen, etc. Of course we didn't, and I tried to explain to her that since she was still here, there must be a reason for that, and we needed to try to find out what that reason is.
She stopped, stared me in the eyes and said "But I don't want to be here. I want to die." All I could say was that I was sorry, and after a moment left the room. Three days later I was at work, it was a busy night, and so I hadn't even been down to that end of the building yet. Dinner came up, and I went in with her tray, and she was positioned partially upright in the bed, and looked like she was dozing, so I came in and said "Hi!" in her direction. Her daughter turned to me and said "She has been in a coma for a while now." Turns out that morning she had been up taking her pills and was very alert, then by the afternoon she was comatose. Her daughter and son kept a vigil by her side the rest of the night.
Around 6:30pm the call light went off for her room, so I went in and she was twitching and jerking, and her daughter asked that I get the nurse to get her liquid morphine. She passed at 7:10pm. Periodically throughout the evening I had been offering drinks and snacks to the family as they sat by her side. They always declined, but I have done this for many families, and they always seem to appreciate that the staff isn't scared to enter the room, and that their family member hasn't been forgotten, so I continued coming hourly to check on them.
Her hospice nurse was coming in to prepare the body, and we as aides were told to be on standby to assist and learn the procedure for future deaths. Because her nurse was delayed, I and another aide now had the task of putting a rolled up towel under her chin to keep her jaw from stiffening while being open, so we apologized as we entered, asked permission to work, finished and left quietly. An hour later, the nurse arrived and admitted that this would be the first body that she had ever prepared and didn't know what to do. With our nurse giving direction, I became the care giver in charge of preparing the body.
Preparing a body is, despite what you would think, a peaceful thing. I never knew that for me, the grieving process is very easy if I am allowed to be a part of the preparation and final caring for of the patient. When preparing the body for the mortuary to come and take it, we bed bath the patient, dress them in new clothing, drain the bladder as best we can, do oral care, comb their hair, etc. to make them look nice for the family to re-enter the room to pay final respects, all while carefully handling the body to prevent bruising.
As we stood back and allowed the family to re-enter the room with the mortuary coming in right behind, I hoped to heaven we hadn't forgotten to do anything and that they thought she looked okay. Her daughter came in, reached over the bed and gave me a huge hug and said "Thank you so much. Everyone here has been nice, but you have been special. Thank you for taking such good care of her and us."
That is the moment every aide lives for. It's why we work hellish hours, our feet and legs swollen and aching, running for light after light, from patient to patient, filling waters, cleaning teeth, massaging sore muscles, tucking into bed, encouraging the discouraged, sorrowing with the mourners, and rejoicing with the joyful, in the hopes to leave at the end of the day knowing that you eased suffering and did God's work as He would do it, as Jesus did while He was here. It is His example I try to follow as I enter each room, and it is the words she spoke that night that every aide longs to hear; that they have made a difference, and that their efforts were not overlooked or in vain.
There is a nurses prayer that I love very much, I don't know who it is written by, but it speaks the prayer of an aide as well:
This week was my last week at work before I move away to school, but I will continue to tell stories from my memories as the weeks pass. This is a picture of my suitcase, complete with stethoscope and BP cuff.
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