A bit later that same day, I was nearby when a giant gift basket was delivered for the family of the patient with wet breathing. I wanted to see their reaction when it was taken in to them, so I followed the nurse into the room, and thus ended up having the exceedingly rare opportunity to order meds. To my eye, the patient looked like his breathing was even worse, so I texted Helen that he was gasping, and she said to tell the nurse to give him more of a certain medication. She also said, “Jack is coming.” I gave the nurse Helen’s message and in due time, Jack did come. He proved to be a fellow in palliative care and told me that they do three months at the VA, three months at University of California San Francisco Medical Center, a month or two at County Hospital, and stints at various hospices.
He and I went into the patient’s room and chatted with the family. He asked them about restaurants. When Helen arrived, I said to her, “We’ve reached a very important point: they’re about to tell us what the best Korean restaurant here is.” Helen said she definitely wanted to know that, and the conversation continued in a light vein. Helen, Jack and the nurse turned the patient onto his side, which immediately caused the wet breathing sounds to abate, and stuff to start dribbling out of his mouth, which is much better than having it dribble down his throat.
Somewhere along in there, I did go see the non-palliative care patient, who wept when I gave him the rosary he’d requested. He extravagantly admired the prayer I offered and said he hopes one day he can pray as beautifully as I do. I mention it because when I was looking at his chart later, I saw that he has physically attacked other staff and has spat food at them, etc. Maybe it was just a change of mood or change of medication, but it is also true that, while some patients automatically dislike chaplains, many automatically love us.
An hour after the patient with the formerly wet breathing had been turned onto his side, Jack and I went to check on him. He was doing less well, in that he was dead. His family members were weeping as they washed his body. Jack and I were the first care team members to know he had died. One hour before that, we had been talking about Korean food with his family.
Then it was time for a family meeting for another patient on comfort care. We met with four of his relatives in a conference room. One or two of them wept. Another talked nonstop, saying how painful it is to lose the patient, and how much they appreciate how well they’ve been treated. They said they really wanted prayers for the patient. I said I would be happy to pray. As we left the room, the talkative relative asked me, “Are you the top chaplain?”
I said, “No, I’m the bottom chaplain,” and heard Helen chuckle.
Often doctors clear out when praying commences, but that day we went as a group into the patient’s room and held hands while I prayed. I felt a little nervous! This was my very first time praying in front of any palliative care doctor, let alone the one I admire the most, but it was fine, and afterward, the family members gave us all long, long hugs.
Outside the room, a nurse who had been in the room said my prayer had been beautiful, and Helen graciously said, “That was probably the most important thing that happened for that family all day.”
My group of peers from Clinical Pastoral Education met that weekend at the really fabulous place out in the woods that Sam has moved into with his fiancée, and we had a splendid feast.
A couple of days later was my first scheduled Sabbath day. I got a massage, and talked to Martine on the phone. I don’t think I turned on the radio or computer, and it really was a refreshing day.
The next day, I saw my new PCP for the first time. I liked her right away. She spent an entire leisurely hour with me, and agreed to order some labwork I wanted that isn’t standard, including omega 6:3 ratio.
No comments:
Post a Comment