Editor:
Further to the letter by Denis Fafard and Donna Shugar in last week’s paper, “The dying can’t wait,” I would like to share a personal experience.
In October 2014, my 91-year-old father was struggling for breath. We didn’t know what else to do, so we took him to Sechelt Hospital’s emergency department. I have enormous admiration and respect for the staff of the ER, but it is no place for the dying, with its constant noise, bright lights, uncomfortable gurneys, regular blood draws, and on that occasion, a psychotic patient yelling and banging on the safety glass just across the hallway. Dad was cold and tired and uncomfortable.
We took him home, but as his legs had given out, we were not able to care for him there and we ended up taking him back to Sechelt Hospital. With the doctors and nurses facing a barrage of complicated admissions, my old man spent hours slumped in a wheelchair, finally ending up being admitted and parked in the doorway of one of the occupied single-bed rooms because there was no other spot available. He was cold the whole time, and there wasn’t really much they could do for him, so we took him home again, and again we couldn’t cope.
This time I phoned hospice. In an incredible stroke of luck – if the passing of a loved one can ever be called lucky – one of their two beds was available that day. Dad was made warm and comfortable, given a mild sedative for anxiety, and we were with him in a peaceful setting, watched over by caring hospice workers, for the next three days.
I am still moved to tears of gratitude that my dad got to die warm and unafraid. It shocks me that there are only two such rooms on the Sunshine Coast.
Claire Finlayson, Elphinstone
