Ladies’ Man

Mr. C. was always a funny character from the get-go. In the initial days of his admission, Mr. C. came in with difficulty walking due to increased swelling in his lower extremities. With his suave, charisma (or rizz as the youngins call it nowadays) and unapologetic sense of humor, he would attempt to swoon the ladies working on the oncology unit to get things he wanted. Some can perceive this as manipulative (which it is in the slightest). However, if you put yourself in his shoes (which he could no longer fit into), it was easy to empathize with him. He had been living independently his whole life: immigrating to Canada in his early twenties from Haiti, providing for his six children and living life on his own terms until his seventies.

Despite a quirky façade, Mr. C. was a bright man with a vast array of knowledge. Being a retired literature teacher, it was no surprise to see him reading the newspaper daily. If he did not have reading material in front of him, you would see Mr. C. doing one of three things: eating, going out for a smoke or chatting it up with staff to assist him for the first two options. He had charm and wit that rendered him capable of socializing with anyone; hospital roommates, their family members, hospital personnel. He made every interaction with him easygoing and natural. He was that one patient bringing smiles to everyone's faces. He would throw compliments to anyone coming his way. "Good morning beautiful!" "Hello Doc! How are you today fine sir?" And when he spoke to you, you could feel his authenticity. He wasn't a kiss-ass or anything like that. He was a genuine admirer of humanity.

As his legs' size and fatigue increased throughout the weeks, his capacity to walk was greatly inhibited. Going downstairs for a smoke was a process; he needed to be pivoted to a wheelchair, be wheeled downstairs and then brought back up. Although at times when the unit was busy, he was never angry and he never made staff feel pressured to do so. When the chaos of the unit settled, even if it was only for a quick minute, whoever was available gladly helped him get his dose of nicotine.

His favorite pastime during his hospital stay was eating, specifically Chinese food from a particular restaurant. He loooooved chowmein noodles, general tao, orange chicken, everything! He would order through the hospital phone for delivery. I remember the first time he did, he rang the call bell. As my colleague entered his room to see what he wanted, he gave her cash and with googly eyes, begged her to pick up the food at the entrance once the delivery guy arrived. As the weeks went on, he spent more time in bed. He no longer had the strength to be transferred to the wheelchair to smoke. Hence, on multiple occasions, he resorted to ordering Chinese takeout. In fact, it was easier to note down what he wanted, order it via UberEats and have him pay back whichever nurse used their account. As this was COVID times, ordering via the app gave us flexibility and ease picking up the food as we would not keep any delivery person waiting. Since he could no longer light up a cigarette, he would glow at the sight of food that was not provided by the hospital. He stuffed his face so quickly that we would tell him to chew his meals rather than inhale them.

Looking back, it felt as if Mr. C. knew his time was coming soon. I believe he didn’t want to spend the remainder of his days afraid and depressed. Instead, he joked around, engaged with others and appeased his palate for as long as he could. One day, Mr. C. wasn’t as hyper as his usual self. He was drowsy and had developed fever that was suspected to be from aspiration pneumonia. He spoke less and barely kept his eyes open. Despite fluids and antibiotics, his body was not responding. The decision was made to transfer him to palliative care services. Although his respirations were still regular, they became more shallow. He was moved to a private room where he could be comfortable and rest.

Near the end of one of my nights in December, my colleague and I did one last check on all the patients. Upon seeing Mr. C.’s state, it was clear that his breathing pattern was changing. Such phenomenon is common near the end-of-life, which meant he had minutes to few hours left. Before shift change, we found the number of one of his sons residing in Ottawa. We explained to him how he was at the start of the night, and how he had become.

“I’m on my way”, said his son. “I should be there in two hours.”

“I’m not sure he’ll make it until then”, replied my colleague. “Is there anything you’d like to tell him? We’ll bring the phone to his ear.”

To ensure that Mr. C. could hear his son’s last words to him, the phone was put on speaker right next to him.

“Dad, thank you for everything. Thank you for this life. Thank you for being the best dad ever. I love you so much. You can rest now.”

In Mr. C’s room, the echoes of silent cries and sniffles were loud and clear. As my colleague and I listened to those goodbyes, it was impossible not to shed a tear. Although Mr. C. was close to a comatose state, his breathing became less labored and his face was calm and peaceful. We hung up the phone and hoped that his son is able to get to him on time.

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Five minutes after the phone call, Mr. C. drew his final breath. My colleague and I decluttered the room and did a few touch-ups on Mr. C. to make him more presentable to his family. We took a minute of silence to honor the person he was.

After giving report to the day shift, my colleague and I changed and proceeded to head out of the unit. As we walked down the hall, with a bittersweet feeling of grief and relief, we saw Mr. C.’s son hurrying to see his father. We notified him that he has passed, but did so peacefully. We shared our condolences and made our way out.

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Later that day, I remember thinking of my own father and the kind of relationship I had with him. As it was my youngest brother’s birthday, I took my usual post-night shift nap and got ready to head to my dad’s place for supper. Throughout the evening, we celebrated not only my brother, but the ability to get together as one family. We talked, we laughed, we ate Chinese food (I swear it was a coincidence), but most of all, we made sure to express our love for one another.

Rest in Power, Mr. C.

Thank you for reminding us to love, and love unconditionally.