on February 4th, 2015 16 Comments
SMS (“Stanford Medical School”) Unplugged is a forum for students to chronicle their experiences in medical school. The student-penned entries appear on Scope once a week; the entire blog series can be found in the SMS Unplugged category.
A hospital can be full of discomfort. My patients tell me that the food is unappetizing. The beds hurt their backs. The noise echoing through the hallways at night makes it impossible to sleep. And for those patients near the end of life, the treatments being offered may no longer be of benefit, causing more pain than good.
The answer to discomfort for those who are very ill is comfort care, the use of palliation when life-advancing measures are no longer indicated or desired. These measures include things like giving morphine to dull the pain and ease the breath, applying lip balm over cracked skin, offering ice chips to revive the mouth, adjusting blankets or fans, deciding not to press on someone’s chest, to stifle their airways with tubes, if their status declines. The decision to turn to comfort care often means that a patient can receive a private room in the hospital for family to stay close, to feel sunlight through a window. The triumph of comfort over the many indignities of being away from home.
Death does not need to happen in a hospital, yet too often it happens here. In January, I saw two people die. One was old. He had lived a full life; his room was decorated with photographs from his youth, his tall form in a service uniform, or in a tuxedo on his wedding night, half-cropped face suspended in a laugh.
When I met him, he was on a morphine drip, no longer able to speak. To gauge the adequacy of his pain control, we looked at his heart rate, his blood pressure, scouring for signs of bodily agony. He was tucked into a warming blanket, yellow hospital socks on his feet. Every morning we circled around him, whispering hello into the room where he slept, taking stock of the fluorescent etches of the vital signs monitor, the coolness of his legs.
When he passed, we pronounced him after checking for a pulse and listening for a heartbeat. I felt solemn, but also grateful for his smooth passage.
The second person I saw die was young. She had been full of life and her death ripped up all those who loved her. As she became more ill, and more confused, her family made the brave decision to transition to comfort care. There was nothing gratifying about it, her loss was unspeakable. But perhaps the final moments, free from the blinking of machines, the infusion of drugs that upset her bowels and irritated her veins, carried a dim current of peace.