|
| |
Comfort Measures Only
Sometimes that is enough.
 Pulling back on the
plunger, I watch as
the liquid morphine
fills the barrel of the
syringe. In a room
down the hall lies one of my
patients who has been diagnosed
with end-stage ovarian cancer,
and it's my job to ensure that
she remains relatively comfortable.
Entering her room, I immediately
notice the worried looks
that blanket the faces of her
somber family members. It's at
this time that I am reminded
that I once experienced a scene
very similar to this, but on that
day, I was the grieving family
member and it was another who
played the role of caregiver.
How quickly and efficiently
that busy nurse moved as she
handled my father's fragile, precious
body. Although she was
very gentle and at all times professional,
her emotionally
detached demeanor upset me.
Her expression remained flat as
she scurried about the room
attending to his medical needs,
and it seemed to me that she saw
him as a task to complete rather
than the person he was. He was
my father and my friend, and it
saddened me to think that she
would never know him as anything
but the piece of flesh that
lay dormant and decaying on the
bed in front of her.
A soft moan escapes my
patient's lips, bringing me back
to the present. After giving her
another dose of morphine to
relieve the pain, I gently clean
and reposition her, making sure
that I take the time to swab out
her parched, dry mouth. She is a
person to me, a human being
who has loved and been loved,
and it brings me a feeling of satisfaction
to be able to ease her
suffering in her final hours. I gently
express these sentiments to
her grieving loved ones and smile
reassuringly as I go about the
labor of my chosen profession.
We buried my father on a cool,
clear October afternoon, when
the colored leaves were falling
from the trees, and all of nature
was preparing for a long sleep.
He had experienced no pain and
had drifted peacefully into death.
I never spoke with that nurse who
took care of him during his last
days, but I've often wondered
what went through her mind as
she mechanically completed her
assigned nursing duties. This family
will not wonder, for if I do my
job properly, this will be a dignified,
pain-free death, and they will
know that I truly do care.
Photograph Caption: The Bissell family, from left: Cindy, Anthony (in wheelchair), Aaron (standing), Eric (in wheelchair), and
Richard, who became a nurse in 1990, soon after his father died. He began his career working in
geriatrics providing care for individuals with end-stage Alzheimer disease. In 1993, after the premature
birth of his twin sons, both of whom have developmental disabilities, Bissell became an
advocate for people with mental retardation. In 2001 he received the Massachusetts Governor's
Citation for extraordinary and exemplary efforts on behalf of people with mental retardation.
About the Author: Richard C. Bissell cares for developmentally disabled
adults at the Commonwealth of Massachusetts
Department of Mental Retardation at
the Glavin Regional Center in Shrewsbury, MA.
Contact author: rich@bissells.com.
AJN - February 2005 - Vol. 105, No. 2
| |
|
