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Nurse.com - End of Shift: Thank You, Anna
One of my co-workers wrote an article for a professional publication regarding Hospice Care - many here are of a certain age and have elderly parents so I wanted to share it.
Very appropriate as it is National Nurses week
End of Shift: Thank You, Anna
AnnMarie McCord, RN
Monday May 7, 2007
The day we met you were sitting in a floral chair in your daughter's house. You had only recently moved from your own home at your children's insistence. You were polite and tentative as I explained hospice to you. We signed paperwork, and everything was very business like. As I left, I took your hand and you looked at me and I knew...I knew that we had a special connection. I knew that I was going to grow to love you and your family, and I knew that one day I would lose you and we didn't even know each other yet.
A beautiful friendship
The weeks passed, and as I made my visits we shared jokes and recipes between changing medications and taking blood pressures. Your daughter was doing a great job of managing, and you seemed to stabilize physically.
Milestones came and went --birthdays, holidays, graduations -- and you were there. As time went, by I learned about your growing up, courtship years, and raising a family. You told me about losing the love of your life and watching your children struggle to become themselves.
On one of my weekly nursing visits, I found you sitting quietly at the kitchen table. Your daughter was at the store and we were alone. Something was in the air, a question, and then you asked, "What is it like to die?" I didn't answer quickly. I wanted you to say more and you did. With tears in your eyes you told me your hopes and fears and opened up about your doubts and your faith.
I said very little during this visit, but I knew that you were getting ready to begin your journey.
A journey begins
During the next few weeks your condition began to decline. Equipment and new medications began to arrive at the house, and you started sleeping more. My visits became more frequent and we encouraged your son in California to come.
One Monday morning, I entered your bedroom, and you barely opened your eyes when I spoke to you. Your daughter and I bathed you, brushed your hair, and lotioned your feet. We waited silently, tears falling out of your daughter's eyes the entire time. Family came and went, food was cooked, stories were told with laughter, tears, and many questions. Wednesday came, and I finally met your son. He wanted to help care for you, so we showed him how to pull you up in bed and position you comfortably. Your children lovingly cared for their mother.
Saying goodbye
That day everyone wanted to know how much longer you had. I had spent a few moments alone with you, and I knew it would be very soon. After many hugs and "thank yous," I left you and your family, wondering whether I would ever see you again.
That night at 10 minutes to three, I suddenly woke. I got up to get some water. As I walked passed my kitchen counter, my beeper went off. Softly I said, "Is that you?" I reassured your daughter that I would be over in moments.
With your family surrounding you, quiet music playing, and tears flowing, there was a peace in the home. I called the funeral director and when he arrived, we encouraged your family to leave the room. I stayed with you, and I couldn't help sharing with the director how beautiful you were and how amazing your family is.
I'll never forget
When I left your daughter's house for the last time, after your family thanked me and promised we would see each other soon, I just wanted to thank you. Thank you, Anna, for letting me into your life, for allowing me to be one of the people who knew you, and holds a part of your history. Thank you for allowing me to meet your wonderful legacy, your family. But most of all, thank you for trusting me and giving me the confidence to go on and open my heart to someone else, as I do this work we call hospice.
AnnMarie McCord, RN, is a hospice nurse at Brookhaven Memorial Hospital Medical Center Hospice, Patchogue, N.Y. To comment on this story, e-mail jspillane@gannetthg.com.
One of my co-workers wrote an article for a professional publication regarding Hospice Care - many here are of a certain age and have elderly parents so I wanted to share it.
Very appropriate as it is National Nurses week
End of Shift: Thank You, Anna
AnnMarie McCord, RN
Monday May 7, 2007
The day we met you were sitting in a floral chair in your daughter's house. You had only recently moved from your own home at your children's insistence. You were polite and tentative as I explained hospice to you. We signed paperwork, and everything was very business like. As I left, I took your hand and you looked at me and I knew...I knew that we had a special connection. I knew that I was going to grow to love you and your family, and I knew that one day I would lose you and we didn't even know each other yet.
A beautiful friendship
The weeks passed, and as I made my visits we shared jokes and recipes between changing medications and taking blood pressures. Your daughter was doing a great job of managing, and you seemed to stabilize physically.
Milestones came and went --birthdays, holidays, graduations -- and you were there. As time went, by I learned about your growing up, courtship years, and raising a family. You told me about losing the love of your life and watching your children struggle to become themselves.
On one of my weekly nursing visits, I found you sitting quietly at the kitchen table. Your daughter was at the store and we were alone. Something was in the air, a question, and then you asked, "What is it like to die?" I didn't answer quickly. I wanted you to say more and you did. With tears in your eyes you told me your hopes and fears and opened up about your doubts and your faith.
I said very little during this visit, but I knew that you were getting ready to begin your journey.
A journey begins
During the next few weeks your condition began to decline. Equipment and new medications began to arrive at the house, and you started sleeping more. My visits became more frequent and we encouraged your son in California to come.
One Monday morning, I entered your bedroom, and you barely opened your eyes when I spoke to you. Your daughter and I bathed you, brushed your hair, and lotioned your feet. We waited silently, tears falling out of your daughter's eyes the entire time. Family came and went, food was cooked, stories were told with laughter, tears, and many questions. Wednesday came, and I finally met your son. He wanted to help care for you, so we showed him how to pull you up in bed and position you comfortably. Your children lovingly cared for their mother.
Saying goodbye
That day everyone wanted to know how much longer you had. I had spent a few moments alone with you, and I knew it would be very soon. After many hugs and "thank yous," I left you and your family, wondering whether I would ever see you again.
That night at 10 minutes to three, I suddenly woke. I got up to get some water. As I walked passed my kitchen counter, my beeper went off. Softly I said, "Is that you?" I reassured your daughter that I would be over in moments.
With your family surrounding you, quiet music playing, and tears flowing, there was a peace in the home. I called the funeral director and when he arrived, we encouraged your family to leave the room. I stayed with you, and I couldn't help sharing with the director how beautiful you were and how amazing your family is.
I'll never forget
When I left your daughter's house for the last time, after your family thanked me and promised we would see each other soon, I just wanted to thank you. Thank you, Anna, for letting me into your life, for allowing me to be one of the people who knew you, and holds a part of your history. Thank you for allowing me to meet your wonderful legacy, your family. But most of all, thank you for trusting me and giving me the confidence to go on and open my heart to someone else, as I do this work we call hospice.
AnnMarie McCord, RN, is a hospice nurse at Brookhaven Memorial Hospital Medical Center Hospice, Patchogue, N.Y. To comment on this story, e-mail jspillane@gannetthg.com.
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