Tag: Palliative

Palliative care – it’s your right

As National Palliative Care Week draws to a close, many clinicians have been so busy providing palliative care in the current environment of strained services with increasing pressure, that we have not had a chance to reflect on or promote it.

One of the myths about palliative care is that it is only for end-of-life care, yet it is so much more than that.  Palliative care seeks to improve quality of life for anyone with a life threatening illness, through the relief of serious health-related suffering – physical, psychological, social, or spiritual. Everyone has a right to access high quality palliative care when and where they need it.  

Palliative care has always been a passion for me, even as a student nurse more than twenty years ago. In my first week as a new graduate nurse my grandmother had a heart attack and was admitted to hospital. A week of tests and attempts to stabilise her was excruciating to watch. I knew she was dying, and advocated strongly for a palliative approach. One of my aunts admonished me for ‘being too pushy’, telling my parents it was not my place to have these discussions and that I should stop.

I knew my Nan well, and that she had talked to me about dying for many years. She had suffered excruciating chronic pain for decades after a car accident, and often said she would rather be dead than have to continue to live with it. I didn’t give up. As I sat with her in the last hours of her life, listening to her last breaths, I felt an immense relief that she was finally given the dignity of pain control through a syringe driver. I went home knowing she was finally getting the care she wanted and deserved. She died that night.

Two decades later I am working as a specialist palliative care nurse practitioner, caring for older people living in residential aged care. On a daily basis I find myself having to advocate for provision of palliative care in the face of a medical model that attempts to prolong life for as long as possible, even though the person is seriously ill, deteriorating and saying they are ready to die. I am constantly dismayed at the unwillingness of some doctors to have discussions about realistic goals and provide good primary palliative care.

Just this week, our team was called to see a lady who had been unwell for several days with a respiratory infection. She was unable to swallow medicines, eat or drink. She was restless and groaning, and her doctor had been unable to visit, although had charted oral antibiotics that morning. They were capsules that she was unable to swallow. She was rapidly deteriorating and was suffering, and the nurses and carers were concerned and anxious that they didn’t have appropriate medications prescribed to relieve her symptoms. Her advance care plan stated she wanted to have good symptom control and did not want to go to hospital.

I charted injectable medicines and planned to commence a syringe driver to prevent pain and suffering. When contacted, her doctor did not want it to be started because ‘she should be given a chance to wake up’, and wanted all the oral medications to remain on her chart so they could be given the next day. Her family were present, they stated they wanted her to be kept comfortable and that she had been in severe pain when carers repositioned her.

I prescribed a low dose morphine syringe driver knowing that it was my responsibility to ensure she didn’t suffer, and that it was her right to receive palliative care. Less than 24 hours later she died peacefully, her family by her side.

The World Health Organisation explicitly recognises palliative care under the human right to health, stating that it should be provided through person-centered and integrated health services that pay special attention to the specific needs and preferences of individual.

In my own jurisdiction the Medical Treatment (Health Directions) Act states that a person who has given a health direction that medical treatment be withdrawn or withheld “ has the right to receive relief from pain and suffering to the maximum extent that is reasonable in the circumstances. In providing relief from pain and suffering to the person, the health professional must give adequate consideration to the person’s account of the person’s level of pain and suffering”.

The Good medical practice code of conduct for doctors describes what is expected of all doctors registered to practice medicine in Australia, acknowledging the vital role they play in assisting the community to deal with the reality of death and its consequences. It outlines the following responsibilities:

  • “Taking steps to manage a patient’s symptoms and concerns in a manner consistent with their values and wishes.
  • Providing or arranging appropriate palliative care, including a multi-disciplinary approach whenever possible.
  • Understanding the limits of medicine in prolonging life and recognising when efforts to prolong life may not benefit the patient.
  • Understanding that you do not have a duty to try to prolong life at all cost. However, you have a duty to know when not to initiate and when to cease attempts at prolonging life, while ensuring that your patients receive appropriate relief from distress.”

Why then, is it all so difficult? Why do nurses and families have to continue to ‘push’ doctors to plan and ensure access to medicines for end of life care?

Many older people living in residential aged care recognise that they are in the last years or months of life. They have spoken with their families, and have made their wishes clear in an advance care plan. They put their trust in their general practitioner and the nurses in the facility to provide the care they need and expect to have their symptoms managed appropriately in their last days. They, or their family, should not be put in a position where they have to fight for this.

Palliative care is everyone’s business. Please choose a health professional for yourself and your loved ones who is open to talk about death and dying. Choose someone who respects your wishes, is willing to provide the medications needed for good symptom control, or who will refer to another provider if they don’t have the expertise required.

Choose a health provider who will embrace palliative care: it’s your right.

#NPCW2022

Hitting the wall

You’re not prepared for it. You’ve seen it in others, recognised the signs, and hoped it would never happen to you.
And then, WHAM!

Lethargy. Insomnia. Anxiety. Physical illness. Complete mental, physical and emotional exhaustion.

I should have seen it coming. I didn’t.

Some of the signs had been there for months. Feeling disillusioned about my job, and finding it hard to concentrate. Little snippets of irritability and impatience poking through during the day. A sense of never being able to get on top of the workload, and not being able to see the good outcomes – never feeling like the job is done properly and of being completely overloaded and overwhelmed. Frustration and anger with management. An overall lack of job satisfaction.

Burnout in nursing is not a new concept, and it is not just having a bad day. It is continuous work related stress that can have a cumulative, unwanted effect. Workforce studies have identified burnout as a nursing ‘outome’; with high workload, low staffing levels, long shifts and low control all associated factors.1 Nursing stands out as one of the most at risk professions, due to the different circumstances in professional practice causing physcial and emotional exhaustion.2

Other risk factors for burnout include a lack of control or an inability to influence decisions that affect your job, a lack of resources needed to do your work, and extremes of activity (read: chaos). Some personality traits can make you more vulnerable and increase the risk of burnout – perfectionism, over commitment, idealism and self-criticism.

Many blame the pandemic for the increase in health workforce burnout, but if we are honest, the truth is that many of us were at risk prior to the start of the pandemic.

Health services have been stretched to capacity for decades. Unfilled shifts and roster shortfalls. Nurses working long hours and unpaid overtime. Phone calls to staff on days off, begging them to do extra shifts. Bed block and caring for patients on trolleys in corridors. And in aged care, no staff:resident ratios, and an ever increasing workload and patient complexity.

In my own palliative care service, the workload has increased three-fold in the last two years. We are averaging 15-20 referrals and 5-10 deaths each week. In January, February and March, we had more than one death each day. The emotional burden of this work really takes it’s toll.

For the last two years I’ve pushed through – working in COVID outbreaks in aged care facilities, using telehealth much of the time to increase efficiency, and attending an unbelievable amount of meetings. I’ve tried to support the people working with me, at times to my own detriment. Palliative care by telehealth is not my idea of clinical excellence. My job satisfaction has suffered. My health has suffered.

In a week when multiple members of the team were diagnosed with COVID19, I trudged on. It was good to get out of the office and do face to face consults, but by the end of that week I was at the end of my tether.

I hit the wall.

Something had to give, and I realised that if I wasn’t careful, it would mean long term damage. It took a strong lecture from one of my team mates to really bring the message home. It was time to stop, recover and take stock.

After a visit to my GP and some reflection on how I was feeling, I set out to get myself back on track. Daily exercise, eating well and plenty of rest. Lots of reading, some meditation, listening to podcasts, and crochet. I bought storage boxes and sorted some cupboards – regaining a sense of control over my personal space at home. I completed some administrative tasks that have been piling up for months.

After two weeks I feel rested, but not fully recovered. I’m ready to go back to work, but I’ve made some decisions. It’s time to be very clear that our team cannot continue to work without adequate staff and resources. It’s time to step back from some of the committees and meetings. It’s time to put some boundaries in place to protect myself from real burnout which may lead to walking away from a job that I really do love.

Burnout CAN be managed, and you can learn strategies to prevent it from happening. Paying attention and taking control over your own health is just the first step. Information about preventing and managing burnout can be found at https://www.nmsupport.org.au/. Please don’t wait until it’s too late.

References

  1. Dall’Ora, C., Ball, J., Reinius, M. et al. Burnout in nursing: a theoretical review. Hum Resour Health 18, 41 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1186/s12960-020-00469-9
  2. de Oliveira, S. M., de Alcantara Sousa, L. V., Vieira Gadelha, M., & do Nascimento, V. B. (2019). Prevention Actions of Burnout Syndrome in Nurses: An Integrating Literature Review. Clinical practice and epidemiology in mental health : CP & EMH15, 64–73. https://doi.org/10.2174/1745017901915010064
  3. https://www.nmsupport.org.au

Operation Hope

August 2006.

I am in my final year of my nursing degree, and on my final clinical placement with HITH. I have learned to cannulate, take blood, give intravenous antibiotics and blood transfusions. I am learning a lot about infections, wounds and dressings.

I am looking forward to graduating.
I have just found out that I have a full time place in the new graduate program for 2007. I am hoping to work in oncology – my dream job.

I am completing my final assignment, checking my references, counting the words.
The phone rings, my husband answers it.

I sense, rather than hear, that this is not good news.
He is too quiet.
Listening.

He hangs up, and turns to me.
I see the look in his eyes, and my heart feels like it has been grabbed in a vice.

Dad, he says. In hospital.

We’ve been down this path before.
Non-Hodgkins lymphoma.
Diagnosed after many months of night sweats, cough, and weight loss – after returning from Kosovo, where he had been helping to rebuild after the war.

Precious engineering skills, generous heart.

Depleted uranium.

A botched biopsy resulted in a damaged diaphragm and collapsed lung, with a stint in intensive care. The surgeon did not instill hope.
We watched and waited, holding our breath.
Expected the worst.
He recovered. Eventually.

Chemotherapy. Months and months.
Beardless for the first time in his adult life.

Another intensive care scare, and a call to come quickly. He is struggling.
Cardiomyopathy.
Again, we watch and wait.
He pulls through.

Finally, a reprieve.
Remission.

Boxing Day 2004.
Tsunami.
Sri Lanka is dvastated.

His pull towards his country of birth is great.
He answers Word Vision’s call for volunteer engineers.
Goes to assess the damage.
Is too traumatised to tell us the whole truth of what he has witnessed.

He comes home, and starts fundraising.
Operation Hope.
Raises enough money to rebuild a village, and goes back to teach the locals how to build their own houses.

Fast forward to 2016.
The project is drawing to a close.
25 families have new homes, a chance to start again.

He has not told anyone, but the night sweats have started again.
The cough has returned.

Time is running out.

He finishes the last house, says goodbye to the locals, and flies to Switzerland. He wants to see his daughter and grandchildren before returning home to Canberra.

Perhaps he knows.

Two days later, and he is in hospital in Geneva.
DVT, they think.

Something is not right. He is struggling. The doctors are worried.

Heart failure.
The chemotherapy that extended his life so he could do good work has damaged his heart so badly.

He wants to come home.

Our phone rings.
Our world stops.

The french doctors have stabilised him.
A window of opportunity.
A chance to come home.

Pre-existing condition, the insurance company says.
It will cost more than $20,000 for a medical evacuation to Australia.

All of a sudden the flights are booked and I am at the airport.
I have never travelled alone.
I am terrified.
The weight of the world is on my shoulders.

I make it to Geneva.
Rush to the hospital.
He is so sick.
Take me home, he says.
I need to see my family.

Clinique Grangettes, Geneva.
Doctors and nurses in white scrub.
Beautiful. Sterile.
Terrifying.

The french doctors brief me.
They give me cannulas, fluids, instructions.
Wait, I say.
I am only a student nurse.
I can’t do this.

Yes you can, they say.
The airline has cleared him for flight, but we need to leave immediately.
No time to waste.

I call his haematologist in Canberra. He tells me to come straight from the airport to ED. He will accept care.
Good luck, he says.

Business class.
I am too frightened to notice it.
I spend the entire flight watching, waiting, monitoring.
Blood pressure.
Temperature.
Resps.
Scared that I will have to cnanulate and give fluids mid-air.
The air hostesses are kind. They can see the fear in my eyes.
He struggles.

We land at the airport.
My family are waiting.
He wants to go home to his house one last time, but there is no time to lose.
I can see him deteriorating by the minute.

Straight to hospital.
Fast-track through ED.
The haematologist is waiting.
He is kind.

We watch, and we wait.
I am exhausted.

A family meeting in Intensive Care.
I have watched this man that I love as a father suffer.
His family are suffering.
No more, he whispers.
Enough.

We gather round his bed.
Hand and foot massages, words of love.

A brief moment alone, just the two of us.
You have to do this, he says.
What?
Look after the dying. This is your calling.

I know in my heart he is right.
I have so much to learn, so many plans.
This man has taught me so much.
He has given me direction.

I know that one day, when I am ready, and have learned enough…
I will be a palliative care nurse.

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén