Whump-whump. Whump-whump.
My pain raged and roared. It only ebbed if I didn’t move. Which was impossible.
“They’re gonna give you morphine,” one of my companions said.
Another declared, “You’ll get addicted.”
Morphine? Really? Wasn’t that only in the movies? Wasn’t that nasty drug a last resort for the worst of the worst?
Whump-whump. Whump-whump.
We heard the whirling blades before we spotted the helicopter angling between the mountain ridges. It was searching for a landing spot near where I lay by the circle of rocks from last night’s campfire. A few hours earlier I had broken my leg while exploring with a group of kids from the church I then served. On a weekend backpack in the Sierra Nevada high country, we had found an inviting slope of snow—really more like ice in that part of the summer—and decided to butt-slide across its tempting expanse. As the mature associate pastor, I went first.
I hadn’t noticed the granite outcropping poking through the snow.
Legs outstretched, derriere gliding across the slick surface, whooping with the thrill of gravity’s pull, I hit the exposed stone at full speed.
At that very specific moment, thirty years old, able to run for miles, able to hoist an overladen pack across the wilderness from dawn to dusk, I was in the best shape of my life.
And then I wasn’t.
My left leg snapped.
Because the other adult with our group hurried down the mountain to the trailhead to seek help, because a California Highway Patrol helicopter was dispatched as the day faded at 9,000 feet, because the pilot deftly maneuvered onto an uneven pocket meadow swaddled by stunted trees, I was successfully airlifted to the closest hospital.
Soon, I met morphine in the emergency room.
Though a Baby Boomer, a “child of the sixties,” I was also a straightlaced, church-going, introverted kid who never once had tried recreational drugs. Maybe a dentist had numbed my mouth. Maybe, after breaking my finger at a summer job, a doctor had given me a local anesthetic.
But a heavy hitter like morphine? No way! Wasn’t it heroin’s bad boy cousin?
And wasn’t one of those kids from the youth group, beside me while I was loaded into the helicopter, correct: “You’ll get addicted!”
I guarantee, morphine takes the pain away. Seconds after being injected with morphine, I was a happy camper!
I also guarantee that morphine, along with other medications used in hospice care, is often misunderstood.
The bad news:
Morphine is addictive.
It can make you drowsy, at times unable to easily talk/listen.
Many families have conflicts; medications like morphine for a loved one may trigger old or new debates.
Some family members might steal the drugs for their own use/abuse. (See #1.)
Since it can be a caregiver rather than a hospice nurse who gives the dosages to the patient, some think a last dose was what killed their loved one.
Regardless of any first or last dose, some believe morphine is how hospice kills you.
The good news:
Addiction doesn’t matter if you are dying.
Pain is a fearsome force. Reducing pain is a plus.
Morphine’s ability to reduce pain increases the possibility of quality of life—communication, rest, staying home with loved ones—in the final weeks and months.
It assists with breathing. (Ask your nurse about this good news!)
After training by hospice nurses, various forms of morphine can be given at home by family caregivers. (Of course, some think this is less-than-good news.)
I could identify more positive or negative aspects of morphine. Any nurse or physician (especially those involved with hospice or palliative care) would lengthen each side based on their knowledge. Regardless of any rational pro and con discussions about morphine, it will inevitably trigger deep-felt reactions. Sadly, I also suspect it’s easier to argue about morphine than to discuss dying and death.
What if I compared morphine to water? All of the time, humans need water. But too much or too little can be a disaster for individuals or communities. The torture known as waterboarding uses water and transforms it into a frightening experience. Especially nearing death, a dying human needs a medication like morphine. But too much or too little or if morphine is used in the wrong way . . .
My modest goals for these Substack musings are to provide enough general information about hospice for caregivers, hospice patients, and grievers so that:
Ignorance and fear are reduced by gaining information.
Those dying, caring for the dying, and grievers can ask better questions when seeking support from health care professionals.
In nearly everything I share about hospice, I consider repeating: it’s the disease that is killing you/your loved one. We clever humans are adept at ignoring the obvious. When a person becomes a hospice patient, several physicians have agreed that she or he has six months or less to live because of a fatal illness.
Isn’t it unfair to compare my singular encounter with morphine to a hospice patient’s situation? After all, as the medication alleviated my agony in the emergency room, I was scheming to rebuild my body. I was young. Respectfully fearful of an opioid’s addictive powers, I ceased pain-killers as quickly as possible. Six months after my left leg was broken by a rock in a very hard place, I was jogging around a track.
This, though, I humbly offer: don’t add to the suffering.
Morphine, when used properly, helps keep you or a loved one more comfortable.
++++++++++
Photo by Cristian Grecu on Unsplash
My book, A Companion for the Hospice Journey, is available at Amazon.