In the Midst of Life

in some cases, both. That is the area that I will now go on to discuss.
    About ten years ago I was working on the night shift. It was a little after midnight when the crew received a call to attend a ‘ninety-six-year-old female, breathing difficulty’. We arrived shortly after the call was made and knocked on the door at the address we were given. An elderly man opened the door, and gestured for us to follow him. We traipsed into the house with our equipment and were led into the front room where a very elderly lady lay on a single bed in front of a fireplace.
    Thelights were dimmed, but I could see that the lady was dying. Her breathing was bubbly, laboured and intermittent. She was unconscious and her eyes were shut, but she was twitching a little bit. My eye caught an empty ampoule of diamorphine discarded on the mantelpiece.
    The man began to tell us his story. The lady in the bed was his ninety-six-year-old sister. He was ninety-four, and had lived with her all of his life. My crewmate and I exchanged nervous glances, and the distress visible in her face was most probably echoed in mine. He continued that she had been diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago and had fought it bravely, but was now nearing the end and had expressed her wish to die at home – in the comfort of her own bed, in the house where she was born, with her brother for company. He realised that the time was near and was scared. He was terrified of her dying, and wanted to make sure she wasn’t suffering.
    The family doctor had visited in the afternoon and given her a pain-killing injection. She had been sleeping peacefully ever since, but in the last hour her breathing had become increasingly worrying to him and she had begun twitching.
    He couldn’t get hold of his doctor, and the GP surgery had redirected his enquiry to the out-of-hours doctors; they had simply instructed him to dial 999. That is how we ended up there.
    We sat down and reassured the man. ‘We’ll phone the out-of-hours doctor back, ask for the palliative care nurses to come and be with you and get her some more pain relief so she isn’t in any pain.’ He was so grateful; you could see the tension lift from his face.
    I made the phone call and explained the situation to the out-of-hours doctor, and said that we required a palliative visit. He refused point blank to attend and ordered me to take that poor dying lady from her nice warm bed to the accident and emergency department. I was nearly speechless, but attempted to reason with him that it was inhumane to suggest such a thing, the lady was dying and nothing we could do could halt the fact. He adamantly refused to consider it. He was the doctor, I was only the ambulance‘driver’ and was not in a position to disobey his request. ‘Com-passionless’ was my thought, or maybe something stronger, I regret to admit.
    How do you explain this to a distressed relative? That you have to drag his dying sister unceremoniously out of her deathbed and cart her off to the local accident and emergency centre, to be poked and prodded, and then breathe her last on a hospital trolley surrounded by the drunks and assaults that frequent A&E during the night shift? But he was understanding; we had no alternative but to obey medical orders.
    We went and fetched our carrying chair, two big warmed blankets and a pillow to prop her up. I knelt on the bed behind her, and, as we lifted her into a semi-sitting position before settling her into the chair, she died.
    I looked at my teammate and she nodded. We laid the woman straight back down in the bed, still warm from where we had lifted her up, smoothed her eyes over and covered her with the quilt.
    I went to fetch her brother from the kitchen, and we all cried. How unprofessional, I hear you say! I knew in my heart it was the best thing for her. I phoned the out-of-hours doctor again, informing him that now the lady had died, he would
have
to visit and confirm death (in those days we did not perform recognition of life extinct).
    Having personal experience as a relative also puts a whole new perspective on the whole end-of-life-care issue. This is something that I experienced for myself in 2008 when my own mother died from a chronic lung condition. It was the spiritual epiphany of this event that spurred me on to help our ambulance service develop a better insight into end-of-life care and how we can be of benefit to patients who are dying.
    The death of my dear mother was,