“i’ve been through all that three years ago. thanks to my daughter, i am still here.”

i did sense the sarcasm, and was about to let it go, but she was not ready to let me go, so i asked if she didn’t really feel grateful to be alive.

“i tell you, it is more of a curse than a blessing. let’s just say that i hate dialysis with a burning passion. you think that can explain why i am so angry at my daughter for asking the doctors to do EVERYTHING just to keep me alive back then? i mean, six months i was in the hospital. a couple of months on that ventilator, and i can’t even tell them i would really have loved to go. you know, dying would have been better. but my daughter? she wanted EVERYTHING done. now, waiting for a kidney, you think i love waiting?”

i was silent for a moment. it would have been better if i stayed that way, but i was still cleaning her up after administering that 30 ml of antibiotic to her bladder through her urethra (which, to be honest, freaked me out at first because i have never done it before), so i sort of spoke in behalf of her daughter. i told her i would have done the same if i were in her daughter’s shoes.

“well, i was 64 back then, it would have been perfectly alright for me to go. i still haven’t really forgiven her, and i don’t think i ever will. i hope it never happens again. i hope this time i made it VERY clear to her that i do not want to be resuscitated again. never again. ever.”

she asked how cloudy the urine was, the urine that came out just before i administered the antibiotic. i told her it was cloudy. she wanted to see it, but i told her it was with the rest of the trash. she knew i didn’t really want her to see it.

“i bet you it’s like milk. you think with all these modern drugs and all, they can fix this infection. i don’t believe that anymore. i mean, antibiotics of all kinds for the past three months, and i still pee droplets of urine as white as milk, i pee every 30 minutes. and you would think i should never pee anymore, i mean, both my kidneys are supposed to be extremely messed up. why am i still peeing? and why am i still here?”

what do i say to that? nothing. so i didn’t say anything. i nstead, i covered her up, and turned off the light. i told her to have a good night, and to call me if she needed any help.

“if she just let me go, i won’t be suffering all these….”

how times change. it used to be that people are grateful to be given a second shot at life. no matter how difficult that life is after a near death experience. i mean, three years of being able to live, that should at least mean something good, right? wrong.

what i’m saying is, although i don’t totally understand her, i won’t say i don’t really undertsnad her. i guess it all depends now. it all depends on something, or on a lot of things.

as for her daughter, i wonder how she handles the emotional battle of being blamed that she wanted her mother to live longer. to be blamed for a day is one thing, but for three years, nonstop? it must be tough. imagine having to make that decision, thinking at that very moment, that you were making the best decision ever. success must have been sweet, and she might have even called it a miracle. she  must have emotionally savored that time when her mother finally made it thorugh the crisis and lived. 

sadly, that feeling of success was only for a fleeting second. it must be hard to be on her shoes. to be told that she screwed up by not letting her mother die. being a daughter, that kind of screwing up must be one of the toughest screw ups.

i went home confused. confused on what to feel or think about my patient’s very angry attitude. confused if i said the right thing by implying i agreed with her daughter and disagreed with her, but not really.

i also went home feeling sorry for my patient’s daughter. at the same time, i felt grateful that i didn’t have to wear her shoes.

sometimes, you never reallize how ideas of gratitude can come out from a busy 12 hour night shift. you think you just go to work to get by, to help. you don’t expect to find things to be grateful for. especially from an unusual story. but you find it. you find ideas. they come, and you never forget them.