Christmas Morning

Posted on by

My most vivid memory from residency was pronouncing a patient on Christmas morning. He had been dying for weeks. On comfort care measures only, we would stop by his room each morning for a cursory exam, surprised that he continued to hang on. He was no longer responsive, but he seemed to be waiting; waiting for something, for someone. On Christmas Eve, his only son flew in from across the country to see him, to say goodbye. I met with him briefly and discussed his father’s hospitalization, and then I gave them privacy. I wondered if the patient would open his eyes, squeeze his son’s hand, speak his final words. It didn’t seem logical, but my experiences of death up close had taught me to expect the unexpected, the illogical. Perhaps, I should have expected a father’s love to defy medical science, allowing him to wait, without food or water, with intermittent shallow breaths, as long as it took, for his son to return to him.

I was not at all surprised by the early morning page to pronounce this patient. It seemed fitting. After all, his wait was over. His final Christmas wish had been granted: father and son, reunited on Christmas Eve. I walked into his room. He appeared serene and peaceful, glowing with soft light from the first rays of sun streaming into the room from just over the horizon. I was filled with a sense of wonder and gratitude for being allowed to witness this life as it came to a close. I felt joy on his behalf and on behalf of his son who surely treasured his final moments with his father. I also felt his inevitable grief, on that Christmas and for all his remaining Christmases, which would forever represent the loss of his father.

This holiday season, my grief still fresh from the loss of my own father two months ago, I reflect upon my memories of this patient and how he focused on his son’s needs at the time of his death. I believe my Dad did the same. Although he wanted something different for us, it was still a decision born of love. I know that he would not have wanted us to see him as weak and helpless, to burden us with decisions about code status and removal of life support. He wanted us to remember him as fully alive: vibrant, active, laughing, singing. His final words to a nurse in the resuscitation room were “Tell my kids I love them.” I wonder if she experienced a similar awe to be in his presence as he passed. I wonder if she still thinks about him. I wonder if her Dad is still alive and if she will hug him just a little bit tighter this Christmas.

In Memory of Tom Goering 

2/7/54 – 9/23/24

11

About Emily O'Rourke, MD

Dr. Emily O'Rourke started Fountain Direct Primary Care, the very first DPC practice in Hampton Roads, Virginia, in October 2018. She enjoys working with her patients on individualized treatment plans, including lifestyle modification, in order to transform their physical and mental health and help them achieve their goals and live more fulfilling lives. She also serves as an FAA Aviation Medical Examiner and performs Veteran Disability Examinations. Dr. O'Rourke was born and raised in the state of Nebraska, and she graduated with distinction from the University of Nebraska - Lincoln. She completed her medical education at the University of Nebraska Medical Center in 2010. She served as Chief Resident during her final year of the Eastern Virginia Medical School Portsmouth Family Medicine residency program. Dr. O'Rourke is Board Certified in Family Medicine through both the American Board of Family Medicine and the National Board of Physicians and Surgeons. Dr. O'Rourke lives in Chesapeake, Virginia with her husband, Jimmy, and their two sons, Logan and Jackson. She practices yoga regularly and enjoys creative pursuits, including crocheting and playing the cello.