Making Decisions about My Mother’s Treatment Shook the Foundations of My Sense of Wellness

by William R. Blythe, MD •

A Horrible Decision

After discussions with many doctors, I said to her, “Mama, we’re going to put you to sleep and help you breathe. You need to rest, and what we’re doing isn’t working.” And for the first time she asked me, “Am I going to die?”

So, I lied to her and said, “No, Mama, not today. I’ll be right here the whole time. One way or the other, I’ll see you on the other side. I love you.”

And she said (moaned, really) “Okay. I love you too.” Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.

The intubation was tough because she had dried secretions in her throat. Her oxygen saturation dropped immediately when they removed the BIPAP. My friend got the tube in after a struggle, and she recovered briefly, and then her oxygen saturation and blood pressure plummeted. Her stiff lungs betrayed her for the last time, and she developed a tension pneumothorax. Then came the chest tube, and, although this process is a blur in my memory, the reality is that she was hypoxic and hypotensive for far too long.

I was surrounded by an army of my most well-intentioned colleagues, and they all had ideas and suggestions. Predominantly, they had questions as to how I wanted to proceed and what I wanted to do next. But I was shell-shocked and unable to think or make decisions. It was awful—the stuff of nightmares. And somehow Meredith got up the courage to go look at Mama in the eyes, and she looked back at me and shook her head and cried, and I knew that Mama was gone. After what seemed like an eternity, I managed to mutter through my tears and anguish the following words: “Pull the tube.”

That’s what they did. My mother died right there in my arms, and I cried like a child.

One Day at a Time

So, no, I’m not okay. I am riddled with grief and guilt and shame. I have second- guessed everything I know, every decision I made, every action I took, and every word I said. I feel like a fool and a failure. And the worst part is that a thought lurking in the back of my mind wonders if perhaps it was me who needed the relief. Maybe it was me who couldn’t endure watching her linger. Perhaps somehow the decision we made to intubate her was motivated by my own selfish desire for relief from witnessing her struggle and suffer. And I did want her to stop suffering, but I did not want her to die.