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Hospital systems are fundamentally designed to preserve life, often at the expense of respecting a patient's wishes. My first ordeal with this quandary, which I wrote about in
When my mother fell and never woke up, the circumstances were starkly different from my father's situation. She fell on the evening of July 13 and simply never regained consciousness. When I spoke to the physician, I was treated as a human with kindness and compassion.
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My snarky side will tell you that my mother wasn't treated like an unconscious cash cow. During our conversation, the trauma doc explained what happened: two brain bleeds – one repairable in the prefrontal cortex and the second between the amygdala and brain stem, which was not repairable.
He asked me several important questions:
- "Are you the only child?"
- "Does your mother have a spouse?"
- "How soon can you get here?"
I advised that my mother had a medical power of attorney and a do-not-resuscitate order, but I wasn't sure I could locate either before I needed to get on a plane.
"Do not worry about that; just get here," he reassured me.
He also noted, "Your mother had cardiac issues. What do you want us to do if she has a heart attack?"
He respected her wishes not to be resuscitated. He wrapped up the call with, "I am on call all weekend, and I will see you when you arrive."
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As expected, her condition did not improve. When I arrived, he came up to talk with me. She was brain dead with no possibility of recovery. We decided to take her off life support, and she had a very peaceful passing.
This time, there was no dramatic struggle with the hospital system; however, it was emotionally even harder on me. Friends who have lost both parents told me that losing the second parent is harder because you become an actual orphan, no matter your age. I now understand what they meant.
Unseen heroes: My team stepping up again
During this incredibly difficult time, my team stepped in once more, this time more forcefully. They were very firm in taking over my responsibilities and keeping me out of work-related matters. One day, I sent an email saying, "I am taking a mental health day." Despite this, I continued working through email.
One team member responded, "I thought you were taking the day off? I have this," and I received a text message urging me, "Please get out of your email." The next day, I received flowers with the most lovely, heartfelt note. Their actions weren't just about covering my workload; they were about caring for me as a person. Their unwavering support allowed me to grieve and begin healing – and not worry what was going on in our business.
A few days later, several packages arrived at my door – one from a friend and two from clients. Receiving these thoughtful gifts from clients reminded me of the deep connections we've formed beyond just professional relationships. More tears.
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These experiences have taught me several profound lessons:
- You never know what someone else is experiencing. Always offer grace and kindness. People may be facing unseen battles, and a little compassion can make a significant difference – and will be remembered.
- Rely on your team and be honest. Don't hide your emotions. Be open with your team about what you're going through. I'm terrible at this, but I've learned that vulnerability fosters deeper connections and support.
- Communicate with clients and vendors. Be honest about your situation to the extent you're comfortable. Let them know if someone will be out due to a family matter or death. Transparency helps manage expectations and often brings understanding and support. Even if you think you don't need the support or accepting it brings up emotions, it's invaluable.
- Understanding grief's impact. Absorbing other people's grief is hard. Well-meaning sympathy can sometimes be overwhelming. At a recent conference, many lovely, kind, well-meaning people approached me to express their condolences about my mom. It became too much to bear, and I didn't know what to do. I felt frozen on the spot. A friend noticed and kindly escorted me out of the room so I could have some space. Lesson learned: I might not always be okay – and that's alright; let people look out for you.
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Advocating for my parents was the hardest thing I've ever done, but it was also a final act of love and service. These experiences have underscored the importance of compassion – not just in healthcare but in all aspects of life. Our roles as HR and benefit professionals uniquely position us to understand and assist others through difficult times.
Always remember to offer grace and kindness, be observant and proactive, and embrace vulnerability. Allow yourself the space to grieve and heal, and don't be afraid to lean on others for support.
While nothing can replace the loss of my parents, these experiences have taught me the immeasurable value of compassion, both given and received. I am committed to carrying these lessons forward, both in my personal life and professional role.
Advocacy is an honor and a profound act of compassion. I hope sharing my journey helps you navigate similar challenges with greater preparedness, empathy and resolve.
