Phones. Phonies. And, Apple Watches.

The Tale of Two Deaths. One Significant Life Lesson.

We knew our dad’s days were limited on this earth.

My dad had been sick many times over the past few years. He would always rebound. But each time it took a little longer to recover and lingering side effects seemed to stay around days or weeks - and sometimes permanently. This time was different. My dad had a stroke. He was rushed to Mercy Hospital in St. Louis, Missouri, given the tPA Drug, and afterwards he showed a little progress. The progress was short lived. Each day there seemed to be a setback. Within days, we knew our dad would be spending his final days on this earth. My mom had one hope. She wanted my dad to pass away in their memory filled home they built 50 years earlier. After a few days of ups-and-downs, we were approached by Linda in Mercy Hospice who wanted to have a family meeting with us to discuss my dad’s ‘care and comfort.’ My mom, my three sisters, and I met with Linda. Linda’s first two sentences were, ‘Today we need to establish a plan for Edward. We need to get him out of the ICU as we need the bed.’ Immediately I was taken aback by her opening comment. Is this about ensuring my beautiful dad, who walked this earth for 82 years helping people, had a peaceful and meaningful final few days on this planet or is this a business transaction for Mercy Hospital as they needed the bed in the ICU? I would have to say it was about the latter. As we talked about options for my dad, Linda glanced at her watch several times. We needed to ‘move our meeting along as someone else was scheduled to use the room.’

In our hospice (business) meeting with Linda, we came to agreement on four issues. One, at Linda’s recommendation, my dad would be moved the next day to the Oncology Floor where the nurses are ‘kind and compassionate.’ My dad did not have cancer, however, the nurses on this floor ‘were very equipped to care for someone’ in my dad’s condition. They would ‘guide us through this difficult time.’ Two, the nurses would no longer ask the stroke protocol questions. My mom found it very heartbreaking that each nurse that entered my dad’s room would ask, ‘What year is it?’ ‘Who is the President?’ ‘What did you have for breakfast?’ My dad could not answer. He wanted to…you could see the frustration in his eyes. This broke my mom’s heart. He would no longer be asked these questions. Three, our family would prepare for my dad to come home finding the medical equipment and nursing care that my dad would need. And four, Mercy Hospital staff would continue giving my dad speech therapy and doing swallow tests as we wanted to make sure dad could swallow when he came home. As uncomfortable as the situation was, we were comfortable with a plan we all felt was in my dad’s best interest.

The very next day, my dad was moved out of the ICU. He was moved to a closet on the Stroke Floor at Mercy. While not an actual closet, only one or two people could fit in the room as it was extremely small. After they settled my dad in the room, a young nurse came in and began reading from her computer. ‘Edward, can you tell me what year it is?’ I looked at my mom to see despair. I watched my dad try to answer. I was baffled. As I was exiting the room to find help, or an explanation as to why my dad was on this floor being asked the stroke protocol questions which contradicted what we had all agreed upon the day before, another nurse walked by and asked my dad’s nurse, ‘Hey, do you have this one?’ My dad’s nurse nodded. It seemed my dad’s nurse graduated a few months earlier. The nurse in the hallway chatting with her friends was the one who was supposed to be training her. I asked another nurse on the floor why my dad had been moved to that floor. While completely condescending, she replied, ‘Oh, your dad had a stroke. They needed the bed in the ICU. They moved him here. This is where stroke patients go.’ Yes, I knew my dad had a stroke. He was supposed to be moved to the Oncology Floor. Absolutely no one knew what I was talking about. They did agree that the room was small. As my dad had a large family, and we knew these were his final days on this earth, they would move him to a larger room ‘within the hour’ so that more of our family could be present. My mom encouraged me to go home. She would wait with my dad until they moved him and make sure he got settled in. Eight hours later, at 1:30 am, my 80-year-old mother was able to leave the hospital as my dad, still on the Stroke Floor, was moved across the hall to a bigger room.

The next day my sister spent the morning with my dad. She was so grateful that the speech therapist that had been treating my dad came in to give him the ‘swallow test.’ He passed the test. We were all so grateful. We were one step closer to taking my dad home. Later that day, I sat with my dad as my sisters were helping my mom make plans to bring my dad home. While sitting there, Gail from Palliative Care came in. She asked if she could talk to me in the hallway. Of course, I agreed. Gail started in with the ‘your family needs to get on the same page with your dad as we need to transition him out of the hospital. We are very short on beds right now.’ I am reminded again that this is a business transaction for Mercy. As my head swirled, Gail’s phone rang and she commented, ‘This is important, I need to take this really quick.’ After her phone conversation, she came back and asked, ‘Where were we?’ As I tried to collect my thoughts, as difficult as that was worrying about my dad, standing in a hallway with people walking by laughing, and dinners being served, I managed to make reference to our meeting the day prior with Linda. Gail had no notes on that meeting. The reality was that our family was on the same page and Mercy had its own plan. I began to bring Gail up-to-speed on the four items agreed to the day before. Her phone rang again. ‘I am dealing with a big issue, I need to take this,’ Gail said. She walked away again. To Gail, my dad clearly was not a priority. What mattered was that Mercy needed that bed. I went in to be with my dad. He was my only issue. My dad died a few hours later.

As I walked out of Mercy heartbroken that evening with my son, I remarked that I saw such little compassion by Mercy staff for my dad. It was actually astonishing. My son replied, 'Mom, Mercy is a huge business masquerading as a hospital.'

Months earlier…

My husband had a stroke. He was given the tPA drug and had a ‘bad result.’ He was transferred late at night from Missouri Baptist Hospital to Barnes Hospital in St. Louis in hopes of getting much needed help. The prognosis was not good. The next morning, two doctors asked if they could meet with me and my sons. We went into a private room. The doctors’ phones rang constantly. They never looked down at their phones. They maintained eye contact with us as they explained the seriousness of my husband’s condition. They carefully explained their plan and what they were looking for my husband to do to improve. I knew they cared. The next morning, the same meeting occurred. With my sons, we went back into a private room with three physicians. Again, their phones rang constantly. They never looked down. They gave us the update for the day and explained everything in great detail. I knew my husband had very few days left on this earth. And, I knew he was being cared for by the absolute best medical team. The next day, the same thing…back to the private meeting room. Today was different though, as the phones rang, the doctors silenced their phones. I felt the seriousness in the room. I felt the warmth. I felt the compassion. They cared deeply. They told us my husband would not live many more hours. They asked what they could do to make these next hours and days, more peaceful, meaningful, and loving for our family. My husband’s nurse was present. She asked what she could do. I said my husband loved to be wrapped in the hospital heated blankets. She started to tell me my husband could not feel. She quickly caught herself. “I will make sure he is completely warm and wrapped.’ And, she did. In our absolute darkest hour, I saw light. I witnessed my husband passing from this earth surrounded by peace, compassion, and love. It was a beautiful thing. To this day, I still think about those doctors and nurses at Barnes Hospital and how they respected my husband and my family. They eased that inevitable and painful transition from life to death. My husband mattered. My family mattered.

I think so often about the deaths of the two most important men in my life. I think frequently about the contrast of the two deaths. It is a little easier to find peace when you know your loved one left this earth surrounded by compassion not chaos. I think about Gail and Linda at Mercy. Their job was to guide us through this painful life to death transition. They were thinking about the needed bed, the needed room, the phone call that needed answering. And that entire time...we needed them.

I think about phones…a lot. I realize the powerful message a phone can convey. I knew from an inanimate object that I was the most important person in the room at Barnes, and by contrast, not so important at Mercy. I have my phone with me a lot less these days. I realize the statement you can make, without saying a word, to those right in front of you when you are controlled by your phone. This world is filled with phones, phonies, and Apple watches. With technology all around us, the human spirit is still shaped by the actions of others. Acts of kindness, respect, love, and compassion can be felt for a moment but remembered for a lifetime. That is a lasting life lesson that will forever ring true.