How harsh the softly spoken words,
how kind the man of cruel task
in telling tales of flick’ring flames
of candle burning down to wick.
How quick my eyes begin to dim
as lights go out as hope is dashed.
I suffocate as walls close in
and terror strikes this heart of mine.
How distant are the humming sounds
of those I know who speak of love
and offer me their fond farewells
as panic swells and overwhelms.
How strange the speed of passing time
when heartbeat slows til almost still
and bellows gasp each laboured breath
and terror grips a spirit quelled
How can the candle flicker out
upon this life I yearn to live?
How can the flame of me just die?
I don’t know how I can’t exist.
Anna :o]
For those of you who don’t know, I work in a care home. All of us who work there feel privileged,
privileged to really care for the residents who reside there, in their home.
It is like any real home, your
home, my home. There are happy times and
bad times, fall-outs and forgiveness. I
regard the residents as my friends and they feel comfortable with me too. Of course there is and must be professional
boundaries in that I would not offload any problems I have or have had onto the
residents for they have their own burdens to carry and it would just not be
right. There are many other boundaries too,
lines that must not be crossed with vulnerable adults. And they are not crossed.
That aside, the residents are my
friends and I value that. I know them
inside out, know their strengths and weaknesses, know what they can and cannot
handle. The residents are why I love my
job.
In our home we will not do certain things to make GP’s happy if we feel
it will cause psychological harm to our residents – I cannot say much else or it might
identify my home and its sister homes.
(We are small and mighty but each home exists autonomously.)
One of the things we have an issue with is the GP’s belief that everyone
has the right, the need to know that they are in the process of dying. Fair enough, so they have – but at the same
time there is also the right, the right of the need not to know, an acceptance
of the inability to cope with the knowledge of impending death.
And so above is Jimbo’s story.
Jimbo came into this world with congenital birth defects, defects that
affected his ability to mobilise and because of this defect, he was the butt of
jokes and cruel jibes and began to exist within himself, a recluse to save
himself from hurt. As the years passed
he became apathetic to his own needs and neglected himself. He entered our home with a diagnosis of
dementia.
Across the first few weeks it became clear to us that Jimbo did not have
dementia, rather his apathy and depression,
his reluctance to engage had been misdiagnosed as such. We sought the input of his new GP – this
needed as he had moved out of his previous GPs catchment area – who treated his
depression, but would not shift his diagnosis of dementia.
Across time we developed a rapport with Jimbo and he began to feel
valued, that he had a place in this world.
He still would not initiate conversation but was glad when we did; a
smile lighting up his face and he offered us snatches of his life. He remembered our names.
As years passed he physically declined and began to experience pain for
which he was treated. On one GP visit,
the GP noted that Jimbo was now in the slow process of dying and we requested
that Jimbo not be told this, as we knew he was terrified of same. We felt we had the right (on Jimbo’s behalf)
to request this as he had no next of kin and we were concerned for his
spiritual welfare.
This request was honoured, that is until a time death neared, and the GP
took it upon himself to break the bad news as he thought Jimbo
had-the-right-to-know. This
well-intentioned decision had an immediate devastating affect on Jimbo as we
knew it would.
His terror was palpable. From
that moment forth he refused food, fluids and meds, fearing things hidden to
hasten his death. His anguish his terror
added to the now untreated depression and physical pain and his life became
unbearable, despite his determination to hang onto it.
I was on shift the night he died; knowing as I did this would be the
night. He was screaming out in pain and
I knew I could not let him die like this, so phoned out-of-hours docs and
explained the situation, asking if they could help.
A doc arrived some thirty minutes later and gave Jimbo pain relief and a
sedative via injection. Jimbo was
terrified at the sight of the syringe and I assured him that the doc was there
to relieve his pain and not to kill him and he submitted – but never spoke to
me again. I sat with Jimbo til he died.
I often think on this, wondering whether I requested GP intervention for
my own peace of mind and not for Jimbo’s sake.
For despite relieving his pain, all this action did was increase his
terror and led to his distrust of me and in essence he died very much alone.
Were it not for his GPs good but misguided intentions the situation
would have never arisen. Jimbo would
have died pain free and at peace with the ones who loved him. Some folk cannot deal with the knowing and it
is wrong very wrong to force it upon them.
Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by Grace, cheers Grace!
Also entered at Poets United Poetry Pantry. Thanks Mary!
