Waiting on an Angel...

I had a hard day yesterday. Not as a clinician, but as a person.

A longtime patient surrendered to his decade-long battle with lymphoma. I knew him better than some, but as I found out, others knew him on an individually deeper level. He compartmentalized his life...and from talking to the few others that had the pleasure of knowing him...we pieced together the story of a humble man who turned his life around. He went to church, played guitar, loved classic rock music, and wanted no one to fuss over him.

The missing piece of his story was family. He had no family.

But that wasn't completely true. 

He was a part of my workplace hospital. He went to outpatient mental health groups. He called these people his family.

When I found out he was admitted to the ICU...I had a bad feeling. I went to visit him, but this time was different. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't know me. He didn't sing, or talk, or laugh.

His care team was frantically searching for his next-of-kin. Because he had reached the end of his fight.

But there was no one.

And no one deserves to die alone.

After coming to grips with his status, I gave my pager number to the nursing staff. They were gracious, and I was thankful. Because I told them that when it's "time"....I will be there with him. I will play his favorite music, hold his hand, and just be. I will be his family. And I went home expecting a page in the middle of the night.

As I was pulling into the employee parking garage yesterday morning I heard my pager go off. And had to humor myself because OF COURSE this would happen when there were NO parking spots available. I had to park a way from the hospital, and can only imagine how ridiculous I looked running into and through the hospital, to the ICU with my guitar in hand. And then I continued to laugh at myself...because it was like he was playing one last "gotcha" on me. I sat in his room for five hours almost to the minute, until he really decided it was his time to go. All that rush just for him to chuckle at me one more time!

I sang my entire repertoire of hymns...my fingers hurt from playing non-stop guitar....and I was too scared to leave the room to grab lunch or even use the restroom. It seemed like the only thing that mattered in those hours were this person. Knowing that he was a faithful man, his outpatient music therapist, Jocelyn, and myself began trying to figure out how to get him the 'anointing of the sick.' And serendipitously (and also because Jocelyn is a ninja) we found his priest. They had a close relationship and the priest was so gracious that we contacted him.

I truly believe in advocating for each patient...and treating them holistically- as a whole person. He had spiritual needs that I felt like he was rightfully holding on to. And I'm so grateful that his priest was able to sit with him as he took his final breaths.

I held his arm as his respiration rates dropped. I whispered in his ear: "You can go now. It's okay- we're here- you aren't alone."

And he went. At 2:30 PM.

And I was filled with relief that he was no longer suffering. But my spirit was heavy. I felt as if I could sleep for an entire day. My entire work day was spent with this one patient. And it was so meaningful and worthy. I had a hard day. But I am glad that I did.

I went home and had a normal evening with my family. I reflected on this patient all night- and felt so thankful for all the loved ones in my life. Because I will never have to be in the same situation as he- on my deathbed in a hospital with nobody to call and mourn me. I won't take these people for granted after yesterday. 

And my grief washed over me like a tidal wave at 8:30 PM. I cried for someone that I knew...but that I didn't deeply and truly know. But he was a person. It took six hours for me to realize that I had seen a person die before my eyes. That life and death are one millisecond apart. You are breathing-- And then you aren't. Your heart is beating-- And then it stops. He did not die alone. It was an honor to be with him. 

I now feel more knowledgeable about death--although I'm no expert. I had never seen a person die before yesterday. I didn't know what it looked like or the process. I'm proud that I know these things now. It was a peaceful death with staff that came into the room to hold his hand and honor him. Because he was a person with a life, demons, musical talent, friends, mental illness, a caring heart, a strong faith. 

He was a person.

"Waiting on an Angel" by Ben Harper was one of many songs I sang to this patient. And today, it is my song of grief.

(Apologies for the horrible angle...why did I do this vertically? And my double chin.)

"Hope you come to see me soon, 'cause I don't want to go alone..."