5 minutes Before Death
She wasn’t supposed to be dying.
I dialed the cell number listed in her chart, planning to review lab work and check in. After all, our visit earlier that week had been routine, her condition was stable.
Ring, ring, ring … hello?
It did not surprise me to hear a man’s voice, her devoted husband made an excellent caregiver. Ever the anxious spouse, I was quick to dismiss the shakiness in his voice this morning.
But everything was not okay. I had called 5 minutes before her death.
A stage IV cancer diagnosis technically means you are dying.
People may argue we are all dying. Sure, but have you seen a patient who is gaunt, 60 pounds underweight, unable to eat because chemotherapy makes them so nauseated? They are dying. The rest of us are simply headed in death’s general direction, yet nowhere close to this.
Cancer treatments are coming a long way in prolonging life, extending it weeks or months or, rarely, years. Even more rarely, there are cures for certain stage IV cancers.
For this dear patient, her cancer was incurable. But, she was not visibly nearing death yet. Treatment was buying her time and she was tolerating it relatively well. Until this morning when her condition rapidly deteriorated and landed her in the hospital.
10:55 — our phone call was cut short by a nurse frantically calling her husband to the bedside.
11:00 — time of death.
12:00 — her husband calls me back to finish our conversation.
Tears formed in my eyes as this newly widowed husband tried to make sense of watching his wife die an hour prior.
The imagery was vivid in my mind — him waking up to her frantic cries, calling 911, collecting the keys, phone, wallet, rushing out the door. Standing helpless at the bedside while the medical team tried to correct her unresponsive vital signs.
His biggest fear was being helpless, yet that is how he felt at the end.
You were such a wonderful support to her, she was blessed by your devoted care.
I don’t think he processed my words today, but hopefully they break through the fog eventually.
And tonight, I am left only with questions —
How do you walk out of the hospital alone after your spouse dies?
It all happened so fast…did you get to say goodbye?
How do you go home and clean up the mess that prompted the 911 call?
Who guides you through the next 24, 48, 72 hours?
Will you even be able to sleep tonight without her beside you? After 54 years of her presence, it must feel like life cannot go on.
How do you even start the funeral preparations, disposing of medications, going through her things?
How do you face tomorrow?
His quivering voice at the end of our call conveyed the love he had, and still has, for her.
Oh, that we would all live our days in quiet recognition of our unknown hour. Maybe we would be less angry, more patient, enjoy more laughter, give more grace and express our love more deeply.
Today’s phone call was my reminder, and it can be yours too.
Thank you for being here,
*Details have been changed to protect patient privacy while maintaining the integrity of the story.
