Sunday, March 13, 2005
Through the Looking Glass
The consultant had told the family : another day or two.
But one look at her and he knew.
She was so quiet, and so still today, making him think strange thoughts about death, and lonely journeys through motionless, twilit deserts, each tenuous step into the afterlife an un-re-traversable step further from the pasts we leave behind. From who we used to be. Sweet deliverence.
That's one of the things about being a doctor that gets to me sometimes. It's almost a form of clairvoyance. It takes the surprise out of everything; it almost drains the colour from life, and sometimes it feels like I'm watching a live-action replay from a fly-cam somewhere behind my head. I don't feel... much. Anymore. I just brace for impact, and when it comes, there is... nothing.
It's been like that for quite a while now - not just in medical aspects of this life. I have lost my ability to feel... truly surprised.
He looked up at the family. They did not know. They believed.
There's a sound someone makes before he or she dies. You read about it sometimes, it's called a death rattle. When I was a house officer, I (and all my other house officer colleagues) used to prescribe hyoscine, initially at the nurses prompting, and eventually as we began to recognise the sound, of our own initiative. It dries up secretions, stops the rattling, and lets the dying pass in peace - to give relief to the living they leave behind.
He spoke quietly, to himself, "hyoscine." But nobody heard him.
He was tempted to pen it onto the drug chart... but here and now his authority held no weight at all. Just this once.
The daughters wanted to know why their mother was rattling as she breathed. He kept his silence.
An hour later, the MO's voice droned on and on to the family about the process of death certification.
He looked around, into the eyes of the family members around him, one by one as the voice continued relentlessly on.
It was a strange experience.
*****
This is really funny.
But one look at her and he knew.
She was so quiet, and so still today, making him think strange thoughts about death, and lonely journeys through motionless, twilit deserts, each tenuous step into the afterlife an un-re-traversable step further from the pasts we leave behind. From who we used to be. Sweet deliverence.
That's one of the things about being a doctor that gets to me sometimes. It's almost a form of clairvoyance. It takes the surprise out of everything; it almost drains the colour from life, and sometimes it feels like I'm watching a live-action replay from a fly-cam somewhere behind my head. I don't feel... much. Anymore. I just brace for impact, and when it comes, there is... nothing.
It's been like that for quite a while now - not just in medical aspects of this life. I have lost my ability to feel... truly surprised.
He looked up at the family. They did not know. They believed.
There's a sound someone makes before he or she dies. You read about it sometimes, it's called a death rattle. When I was a house officer, I (and all my other house officer colleagues) used to prescribe hyoscine, initially at the nurses prompting, and eventually as we began to recognise the sound, of our own initiative. It dries up secretions, stops the rattling, and lets the dying pass in peace - to give relief to the living they leave behind.
He spoke quietly, to himself, "hyoscine." But nobody heard him.
He was tempted to pen it onto the drug chart... but here and now his authority held no weight at all. Just this once.
The daughters wanted to know why their mother was rattling as she breathed. He kept his silence.
An hour later, the MO's voice droned on and on to the family about the process of death certification.
He looked around, into the eyes of the family members around him, one by one as the voice continued relentlessly on.
It was a strange experience.
*****
This is really funny.
