in other words, “i don’t want you to die.”
then he was in the icu and things were looking grim. like the man and his brother, my mom was simply reminded of the dnr order; there was no counsel provided, no opportunity to ask questions, no one to explain exactly what it meant. and when he died of cardiac arrest, the doctor who called the time of death pulled up a blue plastic chair to sit beside me outside the room where my brother’s body laid, and said that it had been a good morning, that minutes before his heart stopped, my brother had sat up, asked for green jello and shared a joke with one of the nurses. he said that they did all they could. say more, i said. was someone with him, did anyone hold his hand or try to comfort him as he died? he didn’t say anything.
it wasn’t until later that i learned that a dnr order isn’t an all-or-nothing directive. contrary to what many people think, it isn’t — or shouldn’t be — about doctors doing nothing when a patient is in distress.
a dnr order isn’t an all-or-nothing directive
there are also choices that can be made — often depending on your health condition, but choices, nonetheless. hhs recommends talking to your health care team to determine which, if any, elements of resuscitation you want. for example, you may want cpr in the event of heart failure, but not to be attached to a breathing machine. these discussions are also an opportunity to learn about the potentially devastating implications of these choices, such as the fact that about half of patients whose hearts are successfully restarted will have some form of brain damage.
it’s impossible to say whether or not a dnr order was the best choice for the man’s brother. what is clear, though, is how important it is for patients and caregivers to be empowered to make these critical life and death decisions from a place of knowledge and education, instead of fear. especially so that in the end, everyone can rest easy in the belief that yes, everything that could have been done, was done.