She was sitting in one corner of the room. With big headphones on her ear, and with an iPad in her lap, she appeared to be preoccupied and was in her own little world.
She was a 6-year-old girl, with beautiful blonde locks, sitting in one of our ICU room. Her back was turned from the door entrance and was facing towards the window. But she was not our patient. Her father was.
A couple of feet away from the little girl was her father, lying in the hospital bed. He was half-awake and half-asleep. He was obviously in distress. Every breath was a struggle that slowly zap whatever energy and life remaining in him.
He was 33 years of age, and for the past 6 years had been battling testicular cancer. And I would say that he gave a good fight. A hardy and courageous fight.
Sadly to say, the cancer was winning this battle. It now had spread to his lungs making it more difficult for him to breathe. His CT scan of the chest which I just reviewed prior to entering his room showed hundreds of big and small masses scattered throughout his lungs. The cancer had spread into his brain too causing him severe headaches.
For the past several weeks he had been in and out of the hospital. He continues to receive chemotherapy, though despite of this the cancer continues to progress. During this present hospitalization, he had been admitted to the ICU twice due to problems stemming from the cancer itself or from the complications of its treatment.
As I entered his room with my ICU team, I spoke to him and his young wife who was in his bedside, about the grim situation. We spoke in low tones, almost in whisper, keeping in mind that their little girl was in the same room.
I relayed to them that in spite of everything we have done, we have nothing more to offer, but one. And that is comfort. Meaning, we cannot cure him or treat him, but we can at least make him comfortable. We can offer medications that can take the edge off from his suffering. Something to numb his pain. Or something to blunt his sensation of air-hunger. Something to lessen the agony as he faces the inevitable.
I recommended that we transition to hospice care.
The patient and his wife agreed, as perhaps they know as well that it was time. The wife silently cried, though not so much, trying to compose herself and trying to show strength so not to upset her daughter, who was oblivious of our discussions.
As a parent myself, I can only imagine the predicament my patient and his wife were in. Oh how we wish that we can protect our young kids from the harsh realities of life. Yet I learned that it was the patient’s wish to have her daughter in his room as much as possible.
As we end our talk, the patient’s wife asked me how we doctors can deal with this kind of situations without crying. I softly answered her, “No, we do.” Or at least I speak for myself. Maybe not in front of our patients, but doctors do cry too.
When I exited the room, I glanced at the little girl. I don’t have the heart to disturb her. She was still quietly sitting in her corner of the room. Her back was still turned away from the bed and from us. She still had her big headphones on. Still busy playing on her iPad. Sheltered from what was happening a few feet away, or so it seems. And at least for now.
Does she know that her daddy will not be able to give her piggy back ride anymore? Does she know that he will not be able to chase butterflies with her again? Does she know that her father will not be able to comfort her anymore when when she falls from her bike and scrapes her knee? Does she know that he will not read her bedtime stories anymore? Does she knows that he will not be able to tuck her in bed anymore and kiss her goodnight?
Does she know that her father will not be coming home, ever? She will.
And I hope she has enough memories of what a father’s love is.
Post note: Two days after I had the talk with the patient and his wife, he suffered a grand-mal seizure and became comatose. He died a few hours later.
(*photo taken somewhere in Grand Teton National Park)