Mrs. S. is no longer
| 1.8 minutes reading time
A beautiful day, the sun is shining and it's warm. I'll be in on Monday. Mrs. S. is no more. Shit.
I had told her to say goodbye before I went home. At the time, however, she was still talking to the doctor and her daughter. The conversation was a bit louder than usual and I didn't want to break in and left. A feeling of guilt takes hold of me. I had agreed with her that... And now she's gone. And she still had doubts, didn't she? I shared that with the doctor and he had already felt that and still wanted to talk to her. Hence the conversation with the three of them. I'm curious how that turned out. What has changed suddenly. Surely the desire to go is greater than the desire to stay?
The doctor is sitting in the conference room. I knock on the door and ask if he has time. Sure, sit back. A big question mark on my forehead is clearly visible and he says what's bothering you. Mrs. S., I say.
"Surely the desire to go is greater than the desire to stay?"
"Surely the desire to go is greater than the desire to stay?"
I was thinking about that too, just now was his answer. Mrs. S. died on Monday. Hey? I say. Deceased? But she had her doubts...
That's right, she had doubts and I had a bizarre conversation. When you left, I walked in with her daughter and asked us to leave us alone for a while. I wanted to talk to her mother. Then she suddenly started talking loudly and said that she already knew what I wanted to say and that her mother didn't hesitate at all but that the people in the hospice made her doubt. The doctor debunked this but the lady went all out to end with; I've already arranged everything for Monday so we can't go back now. I explained to her that this was possible because her mother determined and asked her to leave her mother and me alone. Then she was allowed to rejoin the conversation.
The old lady said that there was no added value in an extension and that it would be selfish of her to do so. Her children were prepared, and that shuffling didn't benefit anyone. So the choice was made and on Monday she fell asleep very quietly and peacefully. Her daughter and granddaughter were with her.
Grateful that the suffering had ended, but also a little confused by the unexpected choice and not being able to say goodbye, I suddenly realized that what matters is not my feelings. That I have to be there to give people as much quality as possible for their last moments, but I shouldn't get too attached to a resident. This is a challenge because some people, fragile as they sometimes are, sweet and open as they sometimes are, quickly acquire a place in your heart.
With that thought in my head, I calmly walk to the next resident.
