“You never forget that sound,” words spoken to me by a person who lost someone close, more a mother to them than a friend. They were talking about hearing the family mourning, that instant when they are forced to realize that their loved one has died and the cry that always follows. To those who have never been present for that moment, may you never be, because those of us that have witnessed it will never forget.
That sound varies with each individual as does the timing but it never fails to leave my stomach hollow and my hair standing on end. Prior to my current job I had rarely seen death, less a brief glimpse during a shift in the ER, being an aide I was never really in the thick of any bad situation. Even working as an EMT, I had seen people die, even seen some pass in front of me but nothing close to being a firsthand witness. Once I became an ALS provider the charge of running a CPR fell onto me, as did the responsibility of telling the family when there was nothing more we could do. To say that I was not prepared would be a vast understatement.
I had been taught what to say or rather what not to say. Be direct they said, avoid phrases like ‘passed on,’ ‘gone to a better place’ and the dreaded ‘expired.’ Their family member was not a perishable food item. Use their name and be direct. “I’m very sorry but John has died and there is nothing more we can do for him.” It seemed so callous, so emotionless and I struggled to keep from using every one of the naughty phrases that instantly come to mind. I want to tell them that time would help, that his suffering has ended and I know how they feel, but I don’t know, so I keep quiet and listen.
I would be lying if I said I remember every death and every family member but I can honestly say that though the faces blur, I remember the majority. The names are lost but all the actions remain crisp in my mind and I have a feeling that they always will. I do well with distance, I’ve learned how to be composed, honest and how to speak simply, and I do not touch anyone, even on the shoulder unless they reach out first, afraid to violate some personal space that I imagine they need. However they do reach out; they reach out and flail, cry, collapse and I never get used to it. One of my first, the daughter did well, stoic even through seeing her father, until she came back out, looked at me and then proceeded to collapse. Having been taught the important ‘catch the baby’ skill, I scooped her up before she hit the ground. She proceeded to let out that cry, then grab, hit, scream, curse and cry some more. I was lost for words, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say,” it was all I could manage to get out. She smiled and said quietly “I know there’s no way you could.”
This was the point when I realized that no matter what I had seen or been exposed to, even death in my family; I could never know what this person was feeling, they couldn’t even grasp their own feelings, I didn’t stand a chance. So instead I bear witness and listen, offering a shoulder and an outlet if needed. After the patient is no longer mine to tend to, their family becomes my responsibility. I stay, providing temporary support until a better source arrives. Shoveling sidewalks that husbands had been trying to finish when they had their heart attack, calling other family members when they can’t bear to find the number in the deceased’s phone, being someone to cast the blame on if needed, nothing too little, nothing too great.
It’s not because it doesn’t affect me, I’ve taken more than one long shower, letting the hot water pull away tears that I’ve felt don’t belong to me. It’s not because I’m looking for a medal or some form of pat on the back, though some have thanked me, even kissed me on the cheek, this too I’ll never forget. I do it because it’s right and it’s what I would want someone to do if it were me. I imagined when I first started that it would affect me less each time. I was wrong, each time I tell a family that they will never see their loved one again it’s just as raw. It is just as real, I feel the same emotions; a struggle between empathy and composure. Every face, every set of eyes I look into I can feel the moment they break inside and it may sound crazy but I break a little each time too. A friend said to me “that means that you are a human, I’m proud of you.” I’m proud of me too, I’m proud that I have the strength to go back to work and do this job every day. I’m also proud that when it becomes overwhelming I’m not ashamed to admit it, not ashamed to feel for those I take care of and for the families that they leave behind. You should be too, what we do is difficult and not everyone is up to the call, be proud that you are.
I will leave you with a quote from a Marine who bears the responsibility of giving death notifications to a fallen Marine’s family. Remember that the easy part of your job is not where your most often needed. Stand tall, be strong, catch those that fall and pray that someone will be there to catch you one day.
“You can almost see the blood run out of their body and their heart hit the floor. It’s not the blood as much as their soul. Something sinks. I’ve never seen that except when someone dies. And I’ve seen a lot of death. They’re falling-either literally or figuratively- and you have to catch them. In this business I can’t save his life. All I can do is catch the family while they’re falling.”
-Major Steve Beck
For those interested, more information about the above referenced book can be found below:
‘Final Salute: A Story of Unfinished Lives’
Written by: Jim Sheeler
Buy it or download it HERE.
