Saving lives is part and parcel of being a doctor. But as essayist Dr. Bruce Campbell well knows, it’s not the only part:
She was nearing the end of a long and interesting life. Her birth was announced on the party line of her rural community’s first telephone system. She graduated with a degree in Home Economics in the 1930s and then worked for a meat packing company, teaching housewives about food safety and testing recipes during and after World War II. She wrote cookbooks, nurtured friendships, volunteered incessantly, and raised a family. Her death, which would come soon, would be shared on Facebook and via cell phone.
She was admitted to the hospital after a slow, uneventful decline. “Failure to thrive,” we physicians call it. She often forgot if she had eaten breakfast or whether her family had come to visit. Her stamina was gone and she was no longer interested in the newspaper or the world around her. She did not care that the baseball season was nearly complete and that her beloved Chicago Cubs were, once again, well out of the running. For her family and her medical caregivers, it was a time of sadness and farewell, but at 95, not unexpected.
I stopped by her room early one afternoon. She was dozing when I sat down and took her hand.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said as she woke. “Are you working hard today? Lots of patients in surgery?”
“No, it’s Sunday. No work today.”
She smiled and closed her eyes again. Her white hair, usually well kempt, was matted to her forehead. The TV was on but muted.
On her bedside table sat her Bible – a well-worn companion that had been patched back together years ago with clear contact paper. Some get-well cards were stacked next to the water pitcher. A hospital-issue toothbrush still in its wrapper lay next to a travel-size tube of toothpaste.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes and looked at me intently. I was startled. “What is it?” I asked. “Are you having pain?”
She squeezed my hand. “No, no, I’m fine. But tell me,” she said. “I was wondering. Do you think I will die today?”
This was a question for which I had never prepared. Not infrequently, a cancer patient will ask me to estimate how long they have left and, in those instances, I try to provide them with a realistic range of weeks or months. No one, though, had ever asked the question quite as specific as this.
“I don’t know,” I replied, looking at her face. There did not appear to be another question below the surface and I could see that she was not frightened. “I’m certain that the time is getting very close. It might be today but I’m not sure.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m ready,” She smiled and closed her eyes. “God is good! I’ve had a wonderful life.”
“My goodness,” I replied not knowing what else to say. “Your life has been special in many, many ways.” Within a few moments, she had drifted back to sleep.
What, I wondered, had triggered her question? She knew that my work with cancer patients had given me ample opportunity to accompany families through their journeys. On the other hand, she had plenty of experience with death, as well. She had attended many funerals and written dozens of sympathy cards over the past decade. Her husband and nearly all of her friends were gone.
She did not, in fact, die that afternoon. The next evening, though, while her Bears were closing in on a Monday Night Football victory, her heart beat its last.
The rest of the world went on, but for a time, my world stopped. My family and I completed arrangements for my mother’s funeral, a task made easier by her grace, her faith, and the simple gift she gave us when she looked at me and said, “I’m ready.”
Lake Effect essayist Bruce Campbell is a head and cancer surgeon at Froedtert Hospital and the Medical College of Wisconsin. Many of his essays appear on his blog, “Reflections in a Head Mirror.”
