Death is a part of our existence. It happens. People die, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. Previously, I wrote about my father's death in February. I am ready to talk more about it. I just finished reading this article by Tatiana Schlossberg (Caroline Kennedy's daughter) about her terminal cancer diagnosis. One of the things she briefly touches on is the care of the nurses at the hospital. She praised them for their service.
May 24, 2016, my mother passed away in a hospital in Baton Rouge. She had sickle cell disease and when it went bad, it all went bad at once. While she was in the hospital in one city, her sister-who also had sickle cell-was in a New Orleans hospital. We knew one would die, we just didn't know which one. My mom died after 7pm on a Tuesday night. My sister was backing into the driveway at our parents' house when my dad called my cell phone to tell us she had passed. We had left the hospital about an hour earlier. We got to say our "goodbyes" and let her know it was okay to die, as we would (eventually) be okay. Sometimes others need to hear that. They need to know they can stop fighting, stop holding on. Go, be at peace.
She did not die alone. The man she was with for 40 years was holding her hand. September 5, 2015, nine months before she passed, my brother died. He had a 20 year-on/off relationship with alcohol. He went from being a functioning alcoholic to being a passed-out drunk. He did a stay at rehab, went to meetings, had a sponsor, but he never treated the "why", so he never healed. He parked his vehicle outside of our parents' home and he died there. My mom was never the same.
Fast forward to December 2024. My father came to Georgia for his Christmas visit. He drove here in his vehicle. He left on a plane, in a casket. It was February 2025.
My father grew up in my hometown of Louisiana. He and his three siblings were raised by my grandmother. He knows and sees his siblings by my grandfather, but they didn't grow up in the same home. They met sometime when he was around age 11. My father was a member of his church. He was a deacon. He loved that church and the members. He loved his wife, his kids, his family. He called to check in with family members. He treated others with kindness. He showed grace and respect. My father was a good man. I can agree with Tatiana Schlossberg about nurses being wonderful. The hospital staff who were in and out of his room, for the most part, were good people. It's the doctors at Piedmont Eastside Hospital that I have an issue with. The African (female-name unknown) doctor who initially saw him and the Asian neurologist (Dr. Patel), also female, are two of the most callous and incompetent doctors I have ever encountered. I have voiced my frustration on multiple google reviews of the hospital. I have written to their patient complaint department. Every avenue I can find to complain, I have. Just writing this reminds me of how pissed I have been and how I had to pray to God to release the hate inside of me and to soothe the rage that keeps building up. I see how my father treated others and I am disheartened that doctors at a hospital did not see him as a person, just as a number-like inmates in a prison.
Every morning and night is the same. I begin my day and end my day with a prayer. I talk to God, give thanks, vent and ask for guidance, forgiveness, other stuff, too! The past nine months have been prayers for me to let go of my anger. If I could drink or smoke the memories away, I would. My dad didn’t die alone. I was there. I was in the room when he was brought back up from having the fluid drained from his lungs. He wasn’t breathing right. His nurse was in the room. I told her something was wrong with his breathing and he was sweating. She calmly left and returned with about 8 people. They were working on him and he could talk. He said nothing hurt but he couldn’t breathe. When code blue was called, I was right there. When they brought him back to ICU and told us his ribs were probably broken from resuscitation attempts and asked if we wanted him kept on a ventilator, I was there. He wasn’t alone. I just wish the doctors at that hospital had more respect, more compassion, more empathy for him. He was a human and deserved to be treated as such. I’m angry, hurt, frustrated, and exhausted, but I won’t stop speaking out about his treatment at Piedmont Eastside Hospital. No family should have to endure what I have.
-Nicole Rene
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