Several years ago, our hospice team gathered to discuss the day’s work. Not long after we began, a veteran nurse wept when sharing about the death of one of her assigned patients . . . a child, not yet school age. The nurse had cared for and supported her tiny patient since birth.
How can any infant or child (and their families) be burdened with the phrase, “hospice appropriate,” and yet they are.
Family, friends, doctors and nurses knew this day would come. Born with a life-limiting illness, and given the best possible medical care and an abundance of love, there was no hope for the child to reach the teen years, let alone a “normal” life. However, I’m confident prayers for a miracle were whispered. Bargains were made with God. Any optimistic hint from a doctor’s comments, or rumors of new experimental treatments, was enthusiastically grasped.
The child died. And that nurse cried.
Everyone in the meeting seemed staggered by the death. We knew it would happen. We were not fools. If it didn’t happen last year, it could be this year. If it didn’t happen last month, the child’s death might happen the next day. But death came on this day, and a child’s moments on earth ended, still young enough so that anyone could easily count the literal number of days lived. Read More →by