By Kenneth L. Hardin

The day after Thanksgiving, as my 81-year-old mother laid in a Concord hospital preparing to take her final journey, I stood at her bedside with three of my five siblings making sure her transition wasn’t completed alone. Seeing that her path wasn’t peaceful and pain free, along with my father and her husband of 62 years, we made the difficult decision to let her go.

We all agreed that as the proud woman she was, who always made sure everything from the way she dressed and carried herself, this wasn’t befitting of all the tubes running in and out of her body and the machines beeping and blaring around her. She deserved to pass through this life’s end with the same dignity she lived. What was so beautiful at the end, shortly before she closed her eyes for the final time, was her words to the legacy she left standing at her bedside. She was in and out of a coherent state at the end. Her head swung back and forth and from side to side as she fought back against the medication that was easing her pain. She finally locked her eyes on each of us and uttered what would be her final words. They’re firmly emblazoned and imprinted into the soul of my mind, “I just loved being y’all’s mama.” With that, she was gone.

A range of emotions that I don’t normally experience consumed me as I walked out of her ICU room and retreated halfway down an empty hallway. I’m usually the strong-willed one in my family that has to take charge to ensure all the details are covered, the I’s crossed and the T’s dotted. But at this time, I collapsed against the wall, exhaling and throwing the weight of responsibility off of me for just a few minutes to allow myself a moment of human emotion. Unexpectedly, someone I didn’t know or recognize through the fog of my tears embraced me and offered soft, quiet words of comfort. This nurse, who I later identified and thanked, didn’t realize how much a small compassionate gesture of humanity helped strengthen my spine and allowed me to get back to making sure my family and my now-deceased mother were OK.   

I know emotional pain, heartache and death. I worked in hospitals for over two decades providing that same level of genuine compassion I received from the nurse. I’ve held the hands of patients without family as they took their last breath so that they wouldn’t have to die alone. I’ve been that voice on the phone making the difficult and dreaded call in the middle of the night urging loved ones to hurry to the ER knowing the fate was already decided. I’ve unzipped body bags in hospital morgues to allow loved ones to find that closure I wished they hadn’t wanted or needed. I’ve walked into rooms with a single parent and a room full of family members to deliver the news that their loved one had gone on to glory. I’ve looked into the eyes of spouses, children and next of kin immediately after they suffered immeasurable loss to ask them if they would consider donating their loved ones’ tissue and organs. I prided myself on being able to disassociate feelings and emotions to ensure I focused all my energy and compassion onto the family of the deceased. But, it’s different when you’re on the receiving end and it is someone that has the same blood coursing through their veins as yours.

I constantly reminded my staff that death notification was a critical time in a family’s life. It is one they would remember until it was their time at the plate, so make sure you treat this moment with the utmost respect and compassion. I shared a quote to help them to always remember how vital their role was, “Sympathy sees and says, ‘I’m sorry,’ but compassion feels and asks, ‘How can I help?’ ”

In those 20 years, I’ve witnessed employees at their worst and some at their best, like the wonderful compassionate care and service we received at the Atrium Cabarrus hospital in Concord during her final hours. I wished she had received that level of care from another hospital she was admitted to leading up to her final stay. The care was so poor and absent of compassion, we demanded she be transferred. Afterwards, I filed federal and state complaints against the organization. It was so egregious; it has soured me on ever using the facility again.

I’ve taught patient improvement workshops across this country to nurses, doctors and all levels of staff. I explain that the patient is more than just a diagnosis, a disease, a room number or a chart. They’re real people with families who love them. Hospital employees should never forget that.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.