A friend died recently; a man of 75 who had come to terms with a cancer diagnosis and decided to not put himself through the debilitating and nauseating side effects of chemotherapy and radiation. He decided, instead, to enjoy what he could of what life there was left for him.
For quite some time that proved to be possible, despite his deep concern that his FNPF pension would soon be drastically cut – a concern that no doubt caused him great stress and hastened his demise.
Unfortunately, the cancer wrecking his body caused him great pain. His last days were not at all easy, nor were they eased as they might have been: and that, to this writer’s mind, is an indictment of many in the world’s medical profession today.
Aged 18, and about mid-way through a nursing course, I stood beside my ward Sister while she took instructions from a dying patient’s doctor. He said that he would neither increase the dose, nor the frequency, of the morphia being administered to ease the patient’s pain. We tidied the patient’s bedclothes, turned her pillow and made her as comfortable as we could, but it was clear that she was in distress.
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