Not Your Day to Die
How we gave our brother the chance to complete his journey
We went to visit Brian the evening after he was admitted for hospice care. He had been waging war with throat cancer over the past few years. Chemo and radiation were overmatched — the enemy was unrelenting, encroaching steadily, claiming territorial victory over his once broad-shouldered vigorous body.
I have a background as an adult and pediatric critical care nurse and have 20 years experience as a pediatric nurse practitioner. Over the past month, I had gone over to Brian’s house at various hours to help my sister, his wife, control the oozing blood from his neck tumor that now resembled a chunk of macerated wood. We would use a few silver nitrate swabs to chemically seal off the random sources of bleeding — like patching a leaking dam.
But for all the time I spent helping them at home when we entered his room, I was not at all expecting to see the blood-soaked towel being held to his neck by a friend. The friend, who also had a medical background, turned to me with that look of suppressed fear, trying to be calm as he clarified, “This is the second towel.”
The nurse went to summon help while we took turns applying pressure. We read each other’s minds — a skill we’d each honed over years of dealing with medical crises — at this rate, Brian was going to bleed to death.
We like to think that hospitals are equipped to handle any emergency, but breathing and heart crises are common, and the response to them is relatively routine — there are protocols and a systematic approach.
There is no protocol for the blood dam being held back by a macerated wood tumor.
The nurse returned with a “SWAT” team of hospital staff, who stood at the foot of his bed surveying the situation as I summed up the background and our current status. I could tell they weren’t sure what to do, and time was not on our side.
There are moments when you’re faced with having mere seconds to decide if you should take charge of a situation, even if it’s not your job or responsibility. No one would have questioned if I stepped aside and let this team of trained and experienced people do their jobs — that was the obvious choice.
I’ve walked many a mile in their shoes, which is why I did what I did.
I leaned down to Brian’s ear and said, “This is not how your story is going to end.”
“Everybody, I know you don’t know me, but I’m asking you to trust me. I’ve been helping with this problem, and I know it’s highly unusual, but I think it would be best if you let me take charge.”
The team had to quickly process the legal and ethical implications of this request. A sense of relief and cooperation ensued - “What do you need us to do?”
I took a deep breath — “We are going to need every silver nitrate swab you can find and this (specific) dressing we used at home.”
The ICU nurse volunteered to assist me as I demonstrated our technique of rolling the swabs to seal off the areas of the breaching dam. We used well over a hundred swabs, eventually sealing the dam and applied the special dressing.
Anyone who has been involved in these types of pending death situations can appreciate how mentally exhausting it is.
I composed myself, approached the team, and acknowledged how unorthodox it is to relinquish control of an emergency in a hospital setting to an unknown visitor — thank you for trusting me.
We helped each other save a life whose time was not quite ready to end.
When hospitals talk about family or patient-centered care, it sounds good in theory - with marketing and public image in mind, I pointed out that this was it in action. They let me take charge (not what the attorneys would have recommended).
Two weeks later, I went to visit Brian on my way to work. As he was waking up, he said, “I just saw your father (who had died 27 years earlier). He was smiling. I’m ready to give him a big hug.” I won’t ever know if this was the opioid pain medication infusion or true afterlife spirituality.
I do know how blessed I felt to be able to have given him the chance to have that dream.
Later, my sister told me she had that same dream, seeing our dad that same day.
