Sir: This is an open letter to all of those who work at Long-term care homes.
I saw something beautiful recently. A young man died with dignity. He died surrounded by his family and by the staff who had cared for him over the years.
This might sound morbid to those who do not work with the sick and dying everyday. But you do. You know what it means to comfort a grieving family. You know what it means to help someone when they are taking their last breath. You know the pain of the family’s loss, because you feel it too.
Dignity did not end at the bedside that day. The young man had been dressed in his favourite hockey team’s T-shirt. His family had placed his ballcap in his hands. They said their goodbyes. It was at that moment that the speakers echoed: “Honour Guard in five minutes. Honour Guard in five minutes.”
You could hear movement in the hallways: nursing staff, kitchen staff and volunteers. They were piling into the elevators and heading down the stairways. They were heading to the main entrance of the long-term care home.
After my colleague and I had placed the young man on our stretcher, and draped him with our quilt, a manager took his hockey jersey out of his closet. She placed the jersey on top of the quilt, neatly folding the sleeves just right.
My colleague and I took the elevator down to the main floor. The immediate family had been waiting just outside elevator. They were holding carnations. They each placed a carnation on the stretcher, and followed behind us as my colleague and I made our journey down the lengthy hallway toward the main entrance.
We were met there by the honour guard. There had to have been at least 30 of them. They were all standing there, poised, holding a carnation. Family, residents and staff stood side by side, waiting for us to venture past them. Someone played a rock ballad on their iPhone – likely one of the young man’s favourite songs.
The honour guard stood in two rows on either side of us. We slowly made our way along as each member of the honour guard took a moment to place their carnation on the stretcher.
The honour guard began inside the long-term care home, and the last flowers were placed as we made our way out the main entrance. Out into the sunshine. Out in plain view.
There were people on the front lawn and in the parking lot: visitors and residents both. Their eyes were on us, on the family, and on the honour guard standing there emitting a quiet dignity. Death had walked right past them. But it was not fear and revulsion we saw in their eyes. Not at all. They stood there, silently, mimicking those who had just placed flowers. They offered a moment of reverence. You could see the wheels spinning in their heads, visitors and residents both as their racing thoughts came to the very real conclusion:
“This is how they care for their dead. This is how they will care for me, or my loved ones. Out here in the sunshine.”
A month ago, this would not have happened. A month ago, the long-term care home’s policy, like many of your homes, had been to take the stretcher out the back door. Our job was to be subtle: to slip out the back door unnoticed, as not to disturb the residents. Death was a secret. In the minds of the residents, their friends and lunchmates would all but disappear – and one day they would too. They would be erased.
Dignity is contagious. There is a movement underway. It began in this area when the Chatham-Kent Hospice opened its doors. Their belief was always that residents come in the front door and should go out the front door. They believe in honour guards and reverence, and the community noticed.
Since then, long-term care home after long-term care home have been contacting us, notifying us that their policies have “changed.” They have embraced the movement. They have embraced the front door. They have embraced the sunshine.
I’d like to invite you all to join us in the movement. The sun feels great.
Nathan McKinlay
Funeral Director
