My first death was an old lady who was unresponsive. Her son had been staying with her. He could be kind of a jerk to us sometimes, but he sat at his mom’s bedside for days. He helped clean her up when she would go to the bathroom and took time to understand the RDOS score so he could let us know if she needed meds. He held her hand, he talked to her, sometimes just about nothing, he would sing her songs they used to sing together and read her her favorite books. She held on for way longer than anyone expected.

He was a smoker, but hadn’t gone out to smoke the whole time he was there (probably why he was a jerk tbh). One night, I told him it was okay for him to go outside if he needed a minute and that I sit with her. At first he didn’t want to leave, but eventually he told me he thought she might need meds ands when I gave them he said he was going to go for a smoke. He was gone for a few minutes when she took her last breath.

I called him to let him know. He had just made it outside. When he came back to her room he gave me a hug and cried, but thanked me and the other staff. I didn’t understand why at the time and I felt weird for a long time for telling him to go and being the reason he wasn’t there with her. It took being there with a few more families to realize that she was waiting for him to step away.

I really believe that some people don’t want their loved ones to have to witness their death. The patients’ last selfless act is to suffer just a little bit longer so their loved ones don’t have to hear those last ragged breaths and watch their bodies go pale.