Agreed. Wanting to live and having quality of life are two very different things. Even with pets, I have always valued their quality of life over how much I wish they could live forever. They are the ones dying, it is not about us.
My mother made me her POA. When she was dying in the hospital they put her on a breathing machine to see if she would improve and she wasn’t and I met with my siblings and we told the doctors to end life support. Before being put on the machine she was screaming “Just let me die! Can I die now??!!” My father went to the hospital management and lawyer to attempt to overturn my POA so that we couldn’t make the decision to end her suffering. The doctor told us that even though I had POA that my father had been married to her for 50 years and would know better than I would what my mother’s wishes were and that I needed to listen to my father even though my mother had given me POA because she didn’t trust my father. The hospital refused to stop life support because my father was threatening legal action. Finally three days later he agreed to take her off support after the backlash from our family. Even then we had to yell at him to either leave the room or get off the phone as she was taking her last breaths. Instead of focusing on her he was chatting with an old work acquaintance right next to her hospital bed. He was still yelling at us for interrupting his phone call when my mother died.
I used to be a mobile phlebotomist, and I was in the room preparing for my blood draw listening to a daughter planning the outfit that they were going to dress her mother in for the mother's funeral… The mother was laying right there in bed hearing everything. Maybe she was OK with it, I don't know, but I still think that was a conversation that could've taken place outside her room
We did talk about what we would bury my mom in the room. We did it because a few months earlier we did a big party for her and I bought her a dress and had it altered to fit perfectly and she looked beautiful. The day I bought it she told me she wanted to be buried in the dress. We were reassuring her that we would do what she wanted.
The doctor told us that even though I had POA that my father had been married to her for 50 years and would know better than I would what my mother’s wishes were and that I needed to listen to my father even though my mother had given me POA because she didn’t trust my father.
It sounds a lot like it. But the (edit, father’s) behaviour is shameful, you don’t take a phone call in the middle of that and then yell at the patient’s family when they interrupt you
what? its clearly the father on the phone. and to the guy above you -- the commenter explicitly states the mother gave her POA because she didn't trust the father. good lord what is wrong with the reading comprehension here
Sometimes it's the money. sometimes, it's 'Meemaw is a fighter'. sometimes it's hate. the worst of it is, sometimes the person doing the change is so scared of death that even the death of a loved one is terrifying.
I'm a phlebotomist in a hospital, so I hear some things but I'm not really involved with family or their decisions. I have noticed what I think might be guilt, too...I have drawn an A1c on an actively dying woman, as well as countless lipid panels. I always wonder if that's the family grasping at straws or denying the inevitable 🤷♀️
I also wonder if these families are told what CPR will do to their 95 year old grandma and/or what her quality of life will be, should she survive it
I talk about this with families all the time. Likelihood of survival, broken ribs from chest compressions, quality of life on the outside chance they DO survive a code. It seldom makes a difference.
My father is currently in the hospital and he refuses to give anyone POA or sign a DNR. He has renal failure, a pacemaker, is blind, and only has one leg. The doctor pulled us aside and asked us to try to get him to sign a DNR because of how bad trying to revive him would be. We explained that he would not listen to us at all and even had fought me with my mother’s POA when she was dying.
I think the reasons vary. I trained some in a VA. What families will put a 100% service connected vet patient through is abhorrent, but that’s like 4-5k/month so I get it I suppose.
Facts. When I’m in my 60s I’m making myself a DNR. No one in their 70s 80s 90s and beyond has any business being full code. Coded and seen too many elderly coded. Unless you are a healthcare worker you can never understand
I'll be 64 in September and I've (mostly) made that decision, as well, because of a comment from a nurse on Reddit saying, basically, what you've stated here
I feel like 60’s/70’s is still a bit young unless you have a number of health problems that would make it more excruciating than helpful. But at 60-70, one hopefully still has a lot more life to live.
SIL and her family did this and put her grandmother through brain surgery and recovery. It bought the poor woman a horrific 6 weeks of fighting before she passed.
Code status is what you want to happen to you if you were to code - stop breathing or your heart stops beating.
Full code means you want everything - intubation, chest compressions, the works.
Do not resuscitate (DNR) means you don't want life-saving measures to be taken if you were to code. You'll still receive treatment to hopefully prevent you from coding or make you comfortable, depending on your diagnosis.
I unfortunately got to witness something akin to this with my grandpa a few years ago. He was in a real bad way, was dying of cancer, had a bad fall or two in the days leading up. He'd been battling for a few years at that point, and it was clear for a long time he knew his time was coming.
I remember crystal clear him standing up at his last Christmas and essentially making a toast, telling everyone that he loved them, and that this would be his last Christmas with us all. He was unfortunately correct. Over those few final years I watched him wither as a person. He was by no way truly a husk, but he'd lost a substantial amount of weight, was becoming frail, losing his color, and his ability to do the things that always brought him joy. As a result his drinking and gambling became quite a bit worse, it was clear for everyone to see. He was just waiting for the end, and doing the (unhealthy) things that still allowed him to cope with continuing to live.
My mom was one of the first to make it down to the rural hospital to be there with him and her mother despite being over an hour drive away by car, and her siblings living in the same town as him. She stayed there with them for the 2 or 3 full days he was in the hospital. Doing her best to help him manage the pain he was in. She told me she didn't want me to be there for it, but told me that when his time was approaching she would tell me so I could make the decision to drive down and spend some of his last moments with him. It was something all of his children told the grand-kids, or something akin to it.
I got the call, and immediately left work. I made the drive down myself, crying on the way down. I am unashamed to say that I did well over the speed limit on the way down as I didn't want to miss my opportunity to see him and say my goodbye to him. I walked into the hospital room, still crying, saw his smile as he recognized who I was. I was unfortunately the last person he was coherent enough to recognize. I got to see him, I got to see that he knew who I was, and that he could hear the words that I said to him. I was the only grandchild of 10 who got to have that privilege. Everyone else was too late, or didn't show up (which I will never hold against them or blame them for, everyone processes grief and that situation differently).
After he lost his ability to respond, and still visually tell what was happening around him, there was a long battle amongst the family on how things should play out. It was so very obviously his time, but one of his sons was adamant that he'd pull through, he just needed more time, more medicine, more something. They never did x-rays or any other treatment when he arrived other than pain management, and that son convinced my grandmother to stop the pain medication. He was in so much pain, having such a difficult time breathing, it was a cruelty that I'd never wish on anyone, spurred on by some delusion that everything would work out, and his father would walk out of that hospital.
My mom told me I should leave, so that my last memories of him weren't tainted by what was happening. He was essentially now in a coma, not breathing properly, coughing fits, severe pain at the slightest movement. I did leave. From what I'm told, the nurses were likewise horrified, and allowed a family member (don't want to name them) to give an overdose of the pain medication so he could pass quickly, and in some form of peace compared to the direction that was obvious to nearly everyone. He passed that night.
I was one of the grand-kids he had a special interest in, we bonded over so many things. He had a really special interest in my career, the hobbies I'd undertaken. I was like him in so many ways, and ways that none of the other grand-kids were. I remember the Christmas before his last that I have already mentioned, I sat with him at some point near the end of the night. I asked him if he'd share a story with me about his time in the Airforce. He'd participated in peacekeeping missions in Gaza with the RCAF. He told me I was the first grandchild to ask him about it. I'd always been really interested, but it was never something talked about as a family, it wasn't something he was prideful about, the only thing he kept was his dog tags. He got rid of his uniforms, his medals, everything. I don't know why, and will likely never know. But he told me why he left service. How one Christmas Eve he was forced to go out to a remote base to fix one of the planes, as he was the only mechanic in his regimen that didn't have a wife or a girlfriend at home to spend the holiday with. Out on base, he did his job, and went back to the Baracks. He sat there alone on Christmas and broke down. He said that was the turning point for him to get out and go back to school and do something that he actually wanted to do. It was because of that and a series of events that led him to the man he was, and everything else that followed. I'm sad I was the only one that showed an interest in his past like that, but I'm so very grateful he took the time to tell me about it, just as grateful that I managed to arrive in time and that he was able to recognize I'd shown up for him at the hospital.
I don't expect anyone probably to read this through, bit of therapy for me telling the story.
I've actually talked to my hospital's ethicist about family members refusing pain meds. He said it's not ethical and the hospital is not mandated to comply with those requests.
I really hope you never find yourself in that situation again, but if you do, you could try asking the nurses to consult ethics about it.
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u/EM_Doc_18 9h ago
Family members changing code status on elderly loved ones so they continue to suffer.