The topic of death isn't something I thought I'd ever write about. It's dark, it's depressing, it's an abstract concept that becomes reality when we are hit with reminders. And that's why reminders are important, "And remind, for verily, the reminding profits the believers" [51:55].
Not long ago, I was on a rotation at a hospital in Brockton, MA. Every morning I went on rounds in critical care unit, where I would team up with some doctors, physician assistants, and nurses, and we would discuss every patient in the critical care unit's case, and make whatever changes to their treatment that was necessary. I would observe every patient, follow their lab results, watch as their case improved over time, or deteriorated with complications. Anytime a patient passed away or "expired" as they say, it broke my heart to throw their file into the shredder. To me, they were not just bad cases of pneumonia, heart failure, or sever sepsis- they were people. They were someone's father or mother, son or daughter- and as I went about my day, having lunch, laughing with co-workers, that someone was painfully grieving.
Once on rounds I was standing outside a patient's room as we were discussing cases. He was an older man, and his wife and grown children were present. I noticed that there was a breakfast table, with coffee and muffins, set right outside that patient's room. That's when I realized the patient was "CMO" or "Comfort Measures Only". CMO means that basically a patient's case is hopeless, and the family and medical team agree to discontinue all treatment, and let the patient die "comfortably". The only thing they are giving is some morphine for pain. The coffee and muffins are supposedly to help comfort the family as they watch their loved one depart.
I was standing outside this patient's room for over an hour. Although I was supposed to be listening to what was being discussed, I couldn't help but watch this patient and his family out of the corner of my eye. His children sat around him, holding his hand. They would laugh one minute, and cry another. His wife was smiling, with tears in her eyes. A million questions popped into my head. Did he treat his family well? Was he pleased with his children? Were his children pleased with him? Did he do good in this life? Did he positively impact anyone? Did he make this world a better place? Did he have any grudges? Did anyone have grudges against him? Suddenly I found myself staring off in a distance imagining myself in his place. Have I wronged anyone? Have I been good to my parents? Was I a good servant to Allah? Did I perform all my prayers? Did I perform all my prayers correctly? Will people remember me and make duaa for me after I go? Or will people forget I ever walked the Earth?
My thoughts were interrupted by several machines that started wildly beeping. The patient's vitals started going out of control. Because he was CMO, no nurse or doctor ran to help him. I continued to stand outside his door, as I watched his family tightly hug each other and cry. I felt helpless, I wanted to run in and inject him with atropine to get his heart rate back up, but there was nothing I could do. Suddenly the lines on the monitors went flat, and the beeping stopped. The doctor that was with us on rounds looked at his watch, strolled into the room and announced "Time of death: 11:13 am". He walked back out, and continued where he left off, discussing another patient's case. A nurse walked into the room and pulled a curtain around the "expired" patient's bed. The wife was crying, the children were crying, and I was crying. I tried casually wiping my eyes with my white coat, but there was nothing I could do to hide it. For everyone else it was as if nothing happened. They started complaining that they were hungry and asking what was being served for lunch in the cafeteria.
When the team decided to break for lunch, I walked with my supervisor to my office and expressed how surprised I was at how casual everyone was about the situation. We just watched someone live his last hour of life and then pass away. She explained that as unfortunate as it is, the reality is that people die- everyone dies. As healthcare professionals, we cannot attach ourselves to patients and humanize them because eventually we would go insane. She left the office, and I sat on my chair and cried my heart out. I have never been so close to death. I have never watched someone die. I have never watched someone watch their father or husband die. Was I just upset because someone died? Or because they were heading to the "afterlife"? Or because the reality of my own death struck me and I'm not prepared for it? Death is a reality, and as Allah says "And by the Lord of the heavens and the earth, it is the truth, even as (it is true) that ye speak." [51:23]. Allah knows best, but it really got me to self-reflect and evaluate myself and the legacy I want to leave behind. As tragic as the loss of a life is, it's important that we use another one's departure as a reminder of our own imminent death, and keep us on track in preparing for the Afterlife. However, one thing for certain is that patients may pass away or die, but they are not medicine or spoiled food and will never "expire".
Not long ago, I was on a rotation at a hospital in Brockton, MA. Every morning I went on rounds in critical care unit, where I would team up with some doctors, physician assistants, and nurses, and we would discuss every patient in the critical care unit's case, and make whatever changes to their treatment that was necessary. I would observe every patient, follow their lab results, watch as their case improved over time, or deteriorated with complications. Anytime a patient passed away or "expired" as they say, it broke my heart to throw their file into the shredder. To me, they were not just bad cases of pneumonia, heart failure, or sever sepsis- they were people. They were someone's father or mother, son or daughter- and as I went about my day, having lunch, laughing with co-workers, that someone was painfully grieving.
Once on rounds I was standing outside a patient's room as we were discussing cases. He was an older man, and his wife and grown children were present. I noticed that there was a breakfast table, with coffee and muffins, set right outside that patient's room. That's when I realized the patient was "CMO" or "Comfort Measures Only". CMO means that basically a patient's case is hopeless, and the family and medical team agree to discontinue all treatment, and let the patient die "comfortably". The only thing they are giving is some morphine for pain. The coffee and muffins are supposedly to help comfort the family as they watch their loved one depart.
I was standing outside this patient's room for over an hour. Although I was supposed to be listening to what was being discussed, I couldn't help but watch this patient and his family out of the corner of my eye. His children sat around him, holding his hand. They would laugh one minute, and cry another. His wife was smiling, with tears in her eyes. A million questions popped into my head. Did he treat his family well? Was he pleased with his children? Were his children pleased with him? Did he do good in this life? Did he positively impact anyone? Did he make this world a better place? Did he have any grudges? Did anyone have grudges against him? Suddenly I found myself staring off in a distance imagining myself in his place. Have I wronged anyone? Have I been good to my parents? Was I a good servant to Allah? Did I perform all my prayers? Did I perform all my prayers correctly? Will people remember me and make duaa for me after I go? Or will people forget I ever walked the Earth?
My thoughts were interrupted by several machines that started wildly beeping. The patient's vitals started going out of control. Because he was CMO, no nurse or doctor ran to help him. I continued to stand outside his door, as I watched his family tightly hug each other and cry. I felt helpless, I wanted to run in and inject him with atropine to get his heart rate back up, but there was nothing I could do. Suddenly the lines on the monitors went flat, and the beeping stopped. The doctor that was with us on rounds looked at his watch, strolled into the room and announced "Time of death: 11:13 am". He walked back out, and continued where he left off, discussing another patient's case. A nurse walked into the room and pulled a curtain around the "expired" patient's bed. The wife was crying, the children were crying, and I was crying. I tried casually wiping my eyes with my white coat, but there was nothing I could do to hide it. For everyone else it was as if nothing happened. They started complaining that they were hungry and asking what was being served for lunch in the cafeteria.
When the team decided to break for lunch, I walked with my supervisor to my office and expressed how surprised I was at how casual everyone was about the situation. We just watched someone live his last hour of life and then pass away. She explained that as unfortunate as it is, the reality is that people die- everyone dies. As healthcare professionals, we cannot attach ourselves to patients and humanize them because eventually we would go insane. She left the office, and I sat on my chair and cried my heart out. I have never been so close to death. I have never watched someone die. I have never watched someone watch their father or husband die. Was I just upset because someone died? Or because they were heading to the "afterlife"? Or because the reality of my own death struck me and I'm not prepared for it? Death is a reality, and as Allah says "And by the Lord of the heavens and the earth, it is the truth, even as (it is true) that ye speak." [51:23]. Allah knows best, but it really got me to self-reflect and evaluate myself and the legacy I want to leave behind. As tragic as the loss of a life is, it's important that we use another one's departure as a reminder of our own imminent death, and keep us on track in preparing for the Afterlife. However, one thing for certain is that patients may pass away or die, but they are not medicine or spoiled food and will never "expire".
Wow Selma my family just went through that exact same situation..even though my uncles family wasn't in thee room my father was...I had to deliver the news. Even though everyone knew it was coming I felt a Sharp pain in my heart. Nothing felt real and as I heard the screams of my aunt and mother it was a surreal moment.
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