Have the conversation.
Even if you think you’re too young.
Believe me, you’re not.
I’ve seen muscled, young men, college bound, who haven’t met the right girl just yet. I’ve seen them laying there, those same muscles wasting away, and the truth hanging in the air that they will never meet the right girl.
I’ve watched Mommas fall flat on their face in a torrent of hot tears, torn over what decision to make.
“Maybe he’d want us to keep fighting for him!!”
Trust me, he wouldn’t. He’s gone.
Have the conversation.
Even if you’re not sick.
I’ve seen thirty year old men who run marathons have a widow maker. I’ve seen the most fit fall to a heart attack that not only steals the oxygen from their heart, but also takes the blood supply from their brain far too long. A young wife with a toddler on their hip shouldn’t be forced to decide whether it’s time to tell their daddy goodbye. She should have the peace that letting go was what he would have wanted. Now she feels like she’s literally pulling the plug as a five year old, wobbly waif of a child pleads, “when’s Poppa coming home?”
Have the conversation.
Even if you think your although aging, but robust and spry parent will be offended by the topic.
“I’m not sure what Dad wanted. I always thought we had more time.”
“Maw was too proud to talk about dying. Now I don’t know what to do!”
“Why did she put this on me?!”
I’ve seen siblings fight over what they think Mom wanted. I’ve seen ugly spats and downright barroom brawls, except they’re fought right over a hospital bed. No parent wants that. I’ve seen no one want to make the call. I’ve seen everyone think they know best. Why guess?
“My brother is the oldest. It’s his job to decide.”
“You haven’t been around in ten years! What qualifies you to know what she would want to do?!”
Have the conversation.
Even if you’re facing a hard battle ahead.
Making your wishes known doesn’t equal defeat. You can say, “I want to fight this,” while also saying, “when the battle is over, I want to surrender in dignity.” Talking about the what if’s doesn’t mean “I give up.” It just makes it easier for your family to let go if and when you do.
Have the conversation.
Even if you’ve gotten better.
I’ve seen doctors break the news to a patient’s family that were all just celebrating remission that the cancer is back.
“It’s everywhere. There’s nothing we can do.”
Have the conversation.
Even if you’re healthy as a horse.
“Mom has always been so healthy. She doesn’t even take any medicine!”
I’ve watched children cry over the bed of their previously healthy parent. In the shock of terrible news, in the wake of unthinkable odds, no one should be expected to make life and death decisions, but they have to.
I’ve seen a husband flabbergasted that his wife he kissed that morning before his shower is now hanging by a thread after a car wreck.
“We never talked about it. We meant to; we just didn’t.”
Have the conversation.
Even if you think you have all the time in the world.
You don’t. Tomorrow isn’t promised. Don’t wait.
We buy life insurance. It’s considered prudent. If something happens to you, you want your family taken care of financially. But what about their emotional well-being? Do you really want to place upon your spouse and children the hard decision of how you want to leave this world?
Do you want to let nature take its course? Do you want to fight until there’s no fight left? What about when the fight is lost? Can they let you go then?
Have the conversation.
I’ve seen shells of a former person laying in the bed. A machine does all the breathing. Rows of intravenous medications keep the blood pressure and heart rate compatible with life. Fingers and toes cold and purple. The nurses turn the patient every two hours because they can’t even shift their own weight to prevent their skin from eating away to the bone. Tubes in every open hole, food through the one sticking out of their nose. It’s hard to see, hard to talk about. No one wants to imagine.
I’ve seen family stay away because it’s too painful to watch. We’re left to hold the limp hand of the dying, the last face they see. No one wants to talk about it.
Medicine is good. I praise God for the knowledge and skill to bring people back from the brink of death! But there’s also only so much we can do. That’s why you have to have the conversation. You have to help us know when you would want to stop.
I’m all in favor of giving it everything we’ve got! I’ve seen so many miracles, I could write a book! I’ve seen physicians say, “it doesn’t look good,” and then my God pick up the pieces and show out. I’ve been wrong. I’ve been certain a patient wouldn’t make it, wouldn’t get better, but then they have. So, I’m not asking you to wave the white flag before it’s time. But when there’s nothing left to do, know what they would want you to do. Tell your family what you would want. If it’s not your time, don’t worry, despite our clasped hands, you’ll bounce back just fine. I’ve seen it so many times. Sadly, I’ve also seen when it’s time, but family won’t let us let them go.
Have the conversation.
Have it when you’re young, when you’re older, when you’re well, and especially when you’re not. Have it now, while you still can, so your weeping family doesn’t have to have it then. Don’t do that to them, don’t do it to us, don’t do it to yourself.
I’ve felt arthritic bones crack under my compressing hands, and I’ve heard an elderly woman scream “it hurts” as the joules of electricity racked her body. When an organ is done, there’s not much we can do except prolong the agony. I got into the field of nursing to bring healing, not pain. When healing is no longer possible, only hurting remains. It’s not fair.
Have the conversation.
Trust me. Ask your family now what they want done if there’s nothing left for the healthcare team to do.
Tell your family now what you would want in the case that you’re unable to speak for yourself.
Did you never want a machine keeping you alive?
Let them know.
Do you want the whole kitchen sink thrown at you as long as there’s a chance, but then the drain pulled when there’s nothing left to be done?
Tell them. Get it in writing.
What if your brain is gone, but your body lives on? What if you’ll be unable to speak, eat, move, or recognize loved ones? Do you want to be kept alive with liquid food through a tube? Don’t leave the weight of these decisions on the people you love. Because sometimes they can’t make them. Then they count on us to have the hard conversations. We’re the ones holding your family as they weep, and we don’t mind it, but wouldn’t you have rather saved them the pain?
Don’t wait. Have the conversation.