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OOur teachers have tried to teach us death during nurse training, but it is impossible to prepare for your first experience. You can learn more about theories, the principles of pain control and symptoms, but it's only a small part of reality.
The first person I saw died was an elderly man with no family who could visit him at the hospital. I was a student nurse and I knew my career would be deadly. I had no idea of the impact that would have on me, however.
John had been fighting for weeks. His heart was failing and the health care team kept him comfortable and relieved his symptoms. He had stopped talking a few days ago, but he was still awake sometimes and his smile when we spoke to him was beautiful.
When I arrived in the room one morning, the night staff said that he had deteriorated and that he had hours left to live. A qualified nurse and I gave her a bed bath, shaved her and changed her sheets. And then I sat down with him.
For the next six hours, I held her hand and spoke to her. I wore a cold cloth on his forehead. The doctor came regularly and asked if he needed more pain relief, but it seemed restful most of the time. He rarely opened his eyes to smile at me.
At the beginning of the afternoon, the nurse came back and we washed her face and combed her hair. As she was about to leave the room, she stroked her hair and said, "Oh, John, let yourself go." A few minutes later, he did.
There were physical things about death that I did not expect. After the doctor confirmed her death, the nurse and I prepared her body for the morgue. I remember touching him and finding him upset. I thought it was strange that I now wear gloves to touch him, whereas a few minutes ago it would have seemed unthinkable.
That night, I did not want to go back to my apartment where I would have been alone. I drove 20 miles to my family's house and spent the night with my parents.
John's death dates back twenty years ago, and I have seen many changes in my role and that of my colleagues. As an NHS graduate nurse today, it's hard to imagine spending six hours with a single patient, and I was fortunate to have had that experience, even as a student.
A dying patient is always a priority and one thing that has not changed is the compbadion and care provided to him and their families. I've seen staff members go far beyond the expectations of their job to make sure that a patient dies as best as possible. Wondering if you could have improved a family's experience, if you could have done more, are ideas that prevent health professionals from sleeping at night. Death is not something I am totally used to – I have developed ways to manage it, seek the support of others, and develop the appropriate level of detachment. If it were not the case, it would be impossible to do my job.
It is a privilege to be with someone in their last moments. I will never forget John. I can still see his face. I remember his dignity, his beautiful smile and I am grateful to him. My first death was neither dramatic nor bloody. I've seen more deaths than I can count since this first experience. I remember some of the other faces, but none are as clean as John's. He and the professionals who cared for him taught me that a good death does indeed exist.
The way we treat those who die is important. And it's important to know how we treat their families. Even though family members can not be present, they want to know that their loved one was at peace and they were not alone. Having now the personal experience of death, I know that families may not remember our name, but will remember the experience and the things we told them.
There are few things more important in my work.
Names and details have been changed to protect confidentiality
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