My aunty Sue passed away 2 months ago. She was a strong German woman filled with fire and determination, a woman you look at and instantly admire. She could speak her truth and was never one to follow the rules, which still rang true when she was given her terminal diagnosis of cancer 12 years ago. She defiantly beat the odds; but we wouldn't expect anything less of my aunty Sue and, for a while, we thought she was unstoppable. She surpassed three terminal diagnoses, each specialist giving her 12 months to live but she didn't follow anyone's rules. My aunty Sue stormed her way through life and lived it to the full, but it was by no means easy. She filled her days with laughter, fun and so much happiness, but behind the smile was an endless list of pain relief medications which led to her to nap in all sorts of weird and wonderful places. This is part of what made her my aunty Sue. When you have someone as resilient as her in your life, you lure yourself into a false sense of security. When someone has been sentenced to death so many times before and laughed in its face, you never expect the day when it finally comes.
On finding her, my uncle called 999 and asked for an ambulance. He remembers the way the crew walked; their faces and the actions they initially took; he remembers shouting at them in his panic; their strong but calming voices; he remembers being led into the kitchen; the words they spoke to him; he remembers the moment they confirmed that my aunty Sue had died—he remembers everything.
We often forget the impact we leave on a patient's family until a death like this happens to yours. You forget that, for the loved ones left behind, their world is crumbling around them and you will always be a part of it whether you remember or not. Although our memory of the patient and the family may fade with time, our words will always remain in their minds. As clinicians, breaking bad news is an inevitable part of our role and is arguably one of the hardest tasks we have to face.
However, if we were to treat every such experience as if the family were our own, we could make their process of grieving that little bit easier so that they can come to terms with their loss. We have a duty of care not only to the patient, but to their loved ones who will be left behind.
My uncle remembers every word the crew said to him, and he will always be thankful—even if they never remember my beautiful Aunty Sue.