New Column From Norris Burkes

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Last column in Feb 2017


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THE FINAL ANSWER AND THE ONE AFTER THAT

I once had a conversation with a patient that reminded me of that moment in "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" when the host asks the guest, "Is that your final answer?"

The man was nearly 60 with a fixable heart problem. He hadn't made many friends in life, and no one was visiting him. He'd worked odd jobs, but said he'd derived little purpose from work. The man's only surviving brother invited him to live in another state with him, but the patient didn't believe the invitation was sincere.

Eventually, I broached the subject of an Advance Healthcare Directive. Commonly known as a living will, the document tells the doctors what you want done if you become incapacitated. Without the directive, doctors are obligated to do everything possible to save your life, even if those life-saving measures only delay your death.

"No," he said, "but I guess I should get one. I don't want to live on a machine."

With this assurance that he had given his "final answer," I prayerfully concluded our visit and requested that a social worker bring him a directive.

Twenty minutes later, I was visiting another patient when I heard it.

"Code Blue, 4 East. Code Blue, 4 East." The code means someone's heart as stopped.

What were the odds it was him? I asked myself. Surely not. He wasn't anywhere near death. It had to be a coincidence.

Nevertheless, I quickly finished my visit and rushed to his wing, where I found the nursing supervisor standing in the patient's doorway.

She and I stood watching staff perform CPR, a procedure that often involves a respiratory therapist straddling the patient with palms flat on the patient's chest, compressing the chest cavity until a rhythmic pulse shows up. Ribs can crack.
The body often expels waste.

From the doorway, I heard questions that hint at ending CPR.

"How long?" a doctor asked.

"We've been at it twenty minutes," came her reply.

"Does he have a directive?" called another.

"No," said the nursing supervisor.

As they slowed their fervent pace, I told the nursing supervisor of my earlier conversation with the man.

"I don't think he wanted all of this," I said, voicing my final answer.

The supervisor shot back to the staff, "The chaplain says the man wouldn't want this."

I shuddered at the sound of my assessment being repeated with such finality. I didn't know the patient very well — I'd only had one conversation with him — yet I was the person in the room with the best information. There definitely was something wrong with this picture.

The attending staff gave a few understanding nods, and the doctor seemed ready to end CPR when a respiratory therapist shouted, "We have a rhythm."

With that, the man rejoined the living.

The incident gave me pause. Had our staff given him back a life he didn't want?

In hopes of getting some answers, I returned the next day and discovered the incident had given him a new perspective. It is a perspective few of us get.

He had peered over the edge of life and decided he didn't like the alternative. More importantly, perhaps, he'd decided that he was the best one to make his future life (and death) decisions, not the chaplain or the hospital staff.

Three days later, he went home with a pacemaker and medication. I don't know if he found a new will to live, but I know he left with a living will that truly gave his final answers.
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To see Norris's latest book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving," or to contact him about speaking, visit www.thechaplain.net. Or write him via P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, Calif., 95759. Twitter @chaplain or call (843) 608-9715.

 

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