I received a
call from the nursing home where my dad had been sent for rehab, after being
released from the hospital in an attempt to help him recuperate from a major
stroke. He had fallen in his room and his vital signs were almost nil.
“It looks
like he will be transported to the local hospital. Why don’t you just wait ‘til
we know more. I can call you back.”
To which I responded,
“Uhmmm, no.
I am leaving right now. I will pick up my mother and we’ll head to the hospital
from there.”
Having
stopped by my mother’s house, and having explained the situation, I got her in
the car, and we made a beeline to the ER. Stepping up to the front desk, I gave
the clerk my name. It happened that a nurse was walking past at the exact same
time, and she had heard me.
“Oh, are you
the family of Henry McDonald?”
I replied in
the affirmative.
“The family
of…” There’s just something obvious and ominous about those three words. I
knew. I just knew. However, I didn’t express my growing concerns to my mother.
“Just have a
seat over there, and we will be with you shortly.”
We had
hardly sat down when a different nurse appeared, walked up to my mother and me,
and said,
“Hello, you
can follow me.”
Mama and I
followed her to a small office, (another ominous sign) and she told us the
doctor would be in in a couple of minutes.
My mother
still seemed oblivious to my father’s fate.
Suddenly,
the office door opened, and what I surmised to be a doctor appeared. She looked
to be 45 or 50, she wore much more makeup than her role warranted, and she was
“dressed to the hilt” in what would have easily passed for an evening gown.
Now the
doctor spoke.
“I’m sorry.
He didn’t make it!”
And then she
disappeared out the door, as quickly as she had appeared.
As the
doctor had spoken those six devastating words, my mother visibly flinched. It
had hit her like a jack hammer.
The nurse
who had ushered us into the office appeared immediately behind what I might
describe as the “twelve second doctor.” For all of the callousness of the
physician, this nurse displayed true compassion. She wrapped her left arm
around mama’s left shoulder and escorted us to the room where the body of my
dear father lay.
Pt. 2
Our little
Queenie, a 16 year old white and auburn Shih Tzu, had been exhibiting
increasing symptoms of dementia, and I knew it was just a matter of time.
Taking a cue from the movie, “Marley & Me,” I had spoken the same phrase to
her several times during the course of the past couple of months.
“You tell me
when it’s time.”
While her
unspoken answer had begun as a proverbial ‘whisper,’ the decibel level had
increased by now to a ‘shout.’ It was definitely time. The evitable could not
be put off any longer.
I finally
called her vet’s office, and arranged what would be Queenie’s final
appointment. It would be the last time she would ever ‘darken the door’ of the
local pet clinic.
Having
walked through the door, the receptionist quickly ushered us into an exam room.
The vet came in almost immediately. He was holding two hypodermic needles; one
was a sedative. The other was a, for lack of a better term, termination drug.
As Dr.
“Bryson” grasped one of Queenie’s rear legs, she resisted. It was obvious that
the vet had long since lost his patience (and didn’t know where to find it). He
had been in practice for just short of 50 years, and his next words indicated a
very low degree of tolerance for any animal shenanigans.
“You are
going to have to hold her, or I’ll be forced to put a muzzle on her!”
It seemed
like a bit of an over reaction for a 15 pound dog. However, I held her more
tightly now, and it seemed my anxious Queenie invested her trust in me. She had
never liked shots. But then, what animal (or human being, for that matter)
does?
Now Dr.
Bryson injected my beloved pooch with the sedative, and it seemed to have an
immediate effect. Her hind quarters jerked a couple of times, and she fell into
a deep slumber. In retrospect, given her age and condition, I was convinced
that the sedative caused her to fall into her final perpetual sleep.
It was time
for the second injection. As the vet inserted the needle into one of her
forepaws, he “came out with” what I perceived to be the most blatant, callous,
unnecessary statement that he could have possibly mustered up at that sensitive
moment.
“You will
need to dig a hole deep enough to keep any wild animals from unearthing her.
And you don’t want to drop her next to the road. Her body contains poison and
it will kill anything which eats her flesh.”
At that
moment I felt like punching him! He could have given me that precious bit of
information after I laid her in the little bank box we had brought for the
occasion, and snapped the lid in place. He could have told me that when we were
in the process of paying the bill. He could have avoided telling me this while
the noxious chemical was in the process of being injected into her veins.
Of course, I
thought, (and almost said),
“You should
have retired twenty years ago!”
Afterward
My father.
My precious pooch. A human being and a beloved animal; both of whom meant more
than life, itself to me.
Bedside
Manners, Indeed!
I came away
from both experiences determined to display true affection and empathy towards
not only my clients, but towards any hurting individual or needy creature which
God sets in my pathway.
Both good
and bad role models have something valuable to teach us.
by William McDonald, PhD
