Mrs. P went comfort care over the weekend. Died a few hours later. She was puffy, swollen, pumped full of a myriad of unforgiving antibiotics and crystalloid solution, a plastic tube jammed down her throat with dried blood at the corners of her mouth. Unconscious, unable to breathe, unplugged, and now unalive.
Her husband, from whom she was separated, was at the bedside soon after she passed- distraught, he prayed with the clergyman assigned to Mrs. P. He wept openly. A broken marriage and a wife stripped of white cells and stripped of life. Which part was he weeping for?
He found no comfort in comfort care. I find no comfort in comfort care. Here's hoping Mrs. P had some comfort with comfort care.
No comments:
Post a Comment