I can still see your face.

April 21, 2020

I can still see your face. It was 7am as I walked into your room with your nurse from the previous shift to give bedside report.

You were surrounded by your family. Love and essential oils were in the air.

It was peaceful in your room, but I was anxious as to what the day would bring as you were already struggling to breath.

I remember looking at you and before I even looked at your chart, I felt like you were too young, and too healthy (on the outside,) to be struggling like you were.

Medications were started that kept your heart beating a little while longer. The medication was steadily dripping into your veins at the maximum rate, but I continued to watch your blood pressures drop, lower, lower. 78/35.

I have to call the Doctor.

The Doctor come up and spoke with your family. It's time for them to let you go.

You fought the good fight. I can tell by the amazing God fearing family that surrounded you.

Doc spoke with your family about the options for you, and your family wanted the medication stopped that was keeping you alive, because you were really struggling.

But that is no easy task.

We started the paperwork and signatures immediately.

I printed the forms out, "Withdrawal of Care."

I looked at them with anticipation because I now had the task of bringing this fragile, life changing piece of paper to your family.

I walked in your room and asked for the closest of kin and/or spouse.

Your husband and eldest daughter would be the ones to take on this task, although it was unanimous, they were all tired of you suffering and agreed it was time.

It took all I could, to not break down crying on my knees, to watch your daughter, and then your husband sign those papers. We cried and held each other through this burden that no one should have to bare.

I remember your daughter looking at me one last time before she signed the paper, both of us, tears streaming down our face, as we faced such a hard task.

Then your husband, hand shaking, holding back the waterfall of tears held behind his red eyes.

We hugged, I told him how sorry I was that he had to go through this. I remember walking back to the nursing station with the weight of the world on my shoulders.

Everything seemed quiet that day, though it wasn't.

Everyone else was bussing around taking care of their patients, calling doctors, grabbing meds. But all that mattered to me right in these moments was you. So the world was quiet. The doctor gave a order for a medication that would help relax you, so you wouldn't struggle as much. I remember feeling so grateful, because it was much needed for you.

I remember every step I took this day. I walked into the med room, grabbing a witness to waste the unused medication. Grabbing some alcohol swabs, a flush, and walking back to you.

My memory plays this day in slow motion. Walking into your room, I explained what I had and how it would help you to relax. Your family were all so relieved. As was I.

I double checked your arm band, scanned the mediation in and gave you this small amount of calming medication in your IV ever so slowly. Within minutes, it helped.

It wasn't long after that, before we could get all the I's dotted and T's crossed on the withdrawal of care process, your heart beat it's last beat.

You were gone.

Sweet hymns filled your room with so much love, and sadness. Grief struck everyone there. You were so loved. I just remember thinking how close your amazing family was and how blessed you were to be loved so deeply by so many. You and your family left such a deep impact on me. I am so thankful to have been able to care for you in your last few hours here on this earth, and onto your forever home.

There is no class to teach you how to deal with something like this in nursing school.

Since this happened, I have been left with the wondering of, was I enough for you in your last hours? Could I have done something more to make you more comfortable? Was I enough for your family. I think this one haunts me the most. Because they are still alive, and will replay this day over and over for the rest of their lives, Even though your family told our house supervisor that I was exceptional, I can tell you, I felt way less than that, that day. I was terrified. Even though it was inevitable at this point, that your life was coming to an end. The pressure I felt to help you during this transition was immense.

I asked so many questions as I always do. Made way to many phone calls to my charge nurse, Doctor, pharmacy and lab. When your heart stopped beating, I still felt like it was in someway, my fault.

I just wanted one more hour.

But in reality, if we had one more hour, I would have wanted another hour after that.

For a husband to feel his wife's breath one more time.

For her daughter to sing to her mom one last time, and for the grandchildren to tell her how much they loved her, one, more, time.

It's not supposed to be this way. You were talking with your family yesterday, and today, you're talking with Jesus. A hard to accept reality.

Death of a loved one, hits so close to home.

I can still see your face.