That Must Be So Depressing
Author: Marijke Vroomen-Durning

Talking about death is very often awkward.  Most people don’t like to acknowledge that death occurs, let alone talk about it.  If the subject comes up, silence sets in, as people try to think of something to say.  When a nurse who works in palliative care mentions her job to a new acquaintance, the response is almost certainly one of two: “Oh, you’re so special to be working in a place like that,” or, “That must be so depressing.”

Those of us who work in palliative care don’t usually see it as either.  We usually don’t see ourselves as any more special than nurses who work in other areas, and we definitely don’t see it as depressing.  While the presence of death is a reality, life is still undeniably present.

Palliative care allows us to give the most intimate of care to people at the most vulnerable stage of their lives.  We’re allowed to be the nurses we were taught we could be while we provide for their emotional, psychological, and physical needs.  We can take the time to sit, listen, and talk.  Or we can just sit and hold a hand. Not only do we care for our patients, we care for their families and friends.  We talk to them, we answer questions, and we worry about them for they too, become part of the circle.

We bear witness to the most special of moments: family reconciliations, birthdays, baptisms, weddings, and forgiveness.  We see the love in those who stay behind, we see the strength in those who struggle and then lose the fight.  But, sadly, we also see families torn apart; we see anger and frustration among those who can’t or won’t say good-bye; we see the pain among those who have left reconciliation too late.  We see the strongest and the weakest of people; we see life, not death.

Our patients range from 18-year-olds to 97-year-olds.  We care for lonely people, matriarchs of huge families, and mothers leaving behind their young children.  What remains most poignant to me though, are the mothers who hold the hands of their adult children as they slip away.  I watched these women, those who have born these children, raised them, and guided them.  I watched as they moved around their dying children, doing what they can, wishing they could do more.  They would give anything to change places with their child, but they cannot.

What amazed me the most is what happens after the patients die.  When we’ve cared for those left behind as best we can, they thank us.  Through their tears, amidst their pain, they take the time to thank us for what we have done in the course of our work day.

As part of tradition, we have candles that we light for each person who passes on.  The candles burn for 24 hours in a lantern that hangs in the entrance, for all to see.

When I first began working in a palliative care residence, the purpose and the meaning of the candle was explained to me, but not having experienced it, the depth of the meaning wasn’t something I understood yet. A week after the residence opened, my first patient there died, a young man in his 50s. His wife and his two sons, both in their 20s, were at his side.  When the time was right, I brought out a candle and explained what it was for. After we lit it, one of the sons left.  He had gone home to get a camera.  It was then that I learned the significance, the true importance, of the candle.  The son came back and took a photograph of the burning candle.  The picture was used on the front of their thank you cards after the funeral.

So, you see, palliative care isn’t depressing. It gives us opportunities to not only give to others, but to learn ourselves. My patients and their families have taught me and touched me. I will never be the same person I was before I entered that residence five years ago.

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About the Author
Author Photo Marijke has been an RN since 1983 and now works full-time as a freelance medical writer and editor. Although she writes for both professional and general public audiences, her passion is in patient education, which was inspired by the patient teaching part of nursing.
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