Category: Palliative-Care

Discussing Mortality- It Matters

March 9, 2015

My Case for Palliative Care 

Forced to face mortality is to walked through the fires of sorrow. It is not the stage on which anyone of us chooses to play. So joy in life is, so sorrow is too.

When the vigil begins, is the being mortal conversation open to include family and the patient facing imminent death?

How important is it for the patient’s medical team to visit daily and continue their involvement?

How important is it to not isolate the dying patient?

What becomes important when being mortal is one’s last reality?

Is there hope beyond hopelessness?

Is there anything in the natural world that possesses the power to reverse the last breath, or is the natural world indifferent to one’s finite being?

Wendy Karasin, who blogs, Musings of a Boomer, read a book written by a doctor, titled, Being Mortal. After she read the book, she asked this question. 

“Where do you stand on this issue?” I agree with Karasin’s observation that death is a tough subject to discuss, and many might think it too depressing to discuss. In my opinion, however painful or frightening, the discussion matters a great deal.

I posted her article, Being Mortal, here on my blog. I wonder what others think about, “Is death too upsetting to consider?”

Today, there are new programs available to open the discussion and address this issue of “being mortal”. In the last ten years, doctors who felt the need and importance to care for patients and address end of life matters, now have the opportunity to pursue a specialty in palliative care.Their dedication,compassion, and comprehensive care for patients who have come to the end of the medical-help road, has contributed enormous support for their terminal patients.

Equally important, palliative care programs offer guidance to those families who choose to become physically and emotionally involved in their loved one’s end care.

From my experience this creates a natural and comforting environment where all involved can talk together about end of life concerns, express emotions, and deal with spiritual matters, if faith has been a part of their lives.

Because I believe each person and their families must navigate mortality on their own terms, I only speak from my experience and belief.

 

Being Mortal

March 9, 2015

My Case for Palliative Care

Discussing Mortality – Does it Matter?

To answer the question posed in Discussing Mortality

“Does anybody matter enough to you to open the door and find out?”

For me, Yes, and many times, yes. My late husband and I walked that end of life road where the gift of life was as precious as our last walk together.

Wendy Karasin - Musings of a Boomer

I just picked up a book titled Being Mortal, in which the author, a doctor, considers the experience of mortality. He explains that he was taught in medical school how to keep people alive, but not how to let them die, or even have that discussion, if there was no longer anything he could do to make them better.

He  says “our ideas about how to deal with finitude” (his word, not mine) are inadequate, if not lacking totally. He talks about doctors having conversations about the risks of operations—which can include severe complications such as paralysis and death—with greater ease than they can discuss why not having the surgery is the preferable decision. Even when they agree.

Death is a tough one. No matter our belief system. So is getting older and frailer, and losing pieces of our dignity. One would think, I would think, there is no better…

View original post 116 more words

Diagnosis Terminal Cancer-Part I

March 18, 2014

DSCN3871“I look to the mountains, where will my strength come from?

January 2003 – Who can save my husband – this mountaineer, a dad, a man of integrity, courage and faith, this man known as a “great guy.” Who can save him from terminal cancer? Can his doctors, can God, can I? When all the answers are no and the agony of terminal cancer trumps coping, how can I sustain my courage to face what is coming?

By Christmas, Werner said to a friend who said, “How are you doing?”  “When I wake, I don’t have any energy. I feel wiped – out. I’m just hanging on.” It set my alarm bells ringing.

On January 28, 2003, the sun rose pale and cold and the cancer wheels ground forward. As usual, we walked in silence from the parking lot and into the hospital for the appointment to hear the CAT SCAN results. Holding hands, we walked our beaten path along the oncology corridor. As usual, we stopped to look at the artwork displayed doing its job to distract. In crowded Oncology, we found an empty love seat along the wall. We sat. We waited. Having had lots of practice, we waited well. He read. I wondered.

The nurse called our name. I said, “Okay, love, here we go.”

Always upbeat, he slipped his arm around my waist. “We’ll be fine.”

We entered the back rooms where test results might mean a matter of life or death.

In our tiny windowless exam room, we sat in our usual worn waiting chairs. But nothing about this day turned out usual. Werner’s nurse stayed. She usually left after she entered Werner’s vitals and weight loss in his health chart.

Werner’s oncologist arrived, and pleasantries followed. “Hi, Carla and Werner. How are you?  Nice to see you. How’s the skiing Werner?” All the while Werner lived with cancer’s assaults on his body, his extraordinary energy and continued active involvement always amazed his medical team.  His oncologist said, “How are you doing?”  “Great,” was Werner’s reply.

And then the silence hung heavy and lingered too long before the hammer came down shattering our world like the breaking of a crystal glass.

“The CAT Scans are back, and I am afraid the news is not good. We are sorry to tell you that your cancer has returned.”

“Bummer,” said my beautiful husband.

I dared not look at him.  My fragile emotional hold retreated to a hiding place for protection.  I reached for his hand and held on tight to hear cancer invaded Werner’s lymph nodes, pancreas, and liver. It spider-webbed around vital organs prohibiting surgical removal. Cancer acted like a parasite. It ate his food first sucking out the nutrients and left him the trash. And then came the worst, “There is no cure. Perhaps six months.”

Everyone’s eyes fastened on us. Tense. Silent. Waiting. How will we respond? Anger, hysterics, blame?  No, we sat. We did not move. The atmosphere in the room felt oddly calm.

The oncologist broke the silence and offered the palliative program chemotherapy and without hesitation, Werner said, “I will fight. When do we start?”

As if on cue, a palliative care doctor arrived followed by his nurse and Werner’s nutritionist. After we had accepted all the palliative help offered, we stood to leave, amid hugs and good wishes. Werner walked half-way through the door, turned and said, “I am going skiing tomorrow.”

 

Part II: Beyond coping when facing a loved one’s terminal cancer. Who Will Help?

“My strength comes from God who made the mountains.”