Kimberly Dehart
January 2025
Kimberly
Dehart
,
RN
B3A
Chandler Regional Medical Center
Chandler
,
AZ
United States
In my almost 30 years in healthcare, I have never seen a beautiful death. Kim changed that for me, and I am eternally grateful.
I wanted to call out Kim, a day shift RN on 3B. She cared for my mom on her last 2 days on earth and was an absolute angel. Things are starting to settle, and as I begin my grieving journey I felt it was important to embrace the gifts I received during that time. Kim is at the top of that list. I had been at the hospital around the clock and was feeling all kinds of ways. Kim came in for a bedside hand-off report, and as we do, I sized her up. She has a natural, un-intimidating air of confidence about her, blended with warmth and compassion. She learned that I was a nurse, but I declined to tell her what kind of nurse I was because no one wants to be the nurse caring for the risk/quality/patient safety executive's family member. I didn't want to burden her with that.
Kim is the epitome of everything we want to be as a nurse. She is the embodiment of all the idealistic Florence Nightingale quotes we see. She treated my quirky little retired kindergarten teacher mom with such tenderness, compassion, dignity and respect in every move she made. Kim spoke to my mom, even introducing herself and explaining what and why she was doing something every time, even when mom was comatose. She checked on me often, ensured I was eating and getting home to rest, and navigated some pretty weird family dynamics (we all have that one person). Kim advocated with strength and conviction, knowing that I was bearing the burden of being the MPOA and sole "medical person" in the family. She expertly wove herself around the swarm of loved ones coming to say their goodbyes. Never once did she make us feel like we were in the way.
When it came time to withdraw care, and I pushed back on the cardiologist by declining an additional test, she stood steadfast in her support of me and my decision. She anticipated my needs, communicating with the hospitalist to get comfort care measures offered so I didn't have to ask. If you have never been in the position to have to make that heart-wrenching decision, it is truly awful. You question yourself over and over, and then it finally happens. Kim stood and supported me, a complete stranger as if we had known each other for a lifetime, and this was her mom. She knew my brain and heart were on overload and preemptively and often offered me the information I needed so that I could make a decision. When I lost my words, she offered and enforced a pause. Kim asked open-ended questions, having me verbalize my thoughts so she could intercede. She blended medical science (lab results, imaging, etc.) into the conversation and met me where I was at. It was some sort of wizardry that should be bottled.
At one point I took a break in the hallway, and saw a wooden wreath she had hung on the door. It had a sign that simply read: "After checking with the nurse... PAUSE, Quietly enter this sacred space, embrace this special family with gentle kindness and love." I understand these wreaths to be unique to this unit, but it is the most amazing gift anyone could provide for a family. I certainly see it as a best practice.
On the night mom passed, Kim stopped by her room on the way out after her shift. The bag and lunch box were in tow, and she came to reassure me that it was going to be okay. She asked one last time if there was anything else that I needed. I asked for a hug, and I am not a hugger. She agreed, and I proceeded to hug her while also soaking her shoulder with tears and make-up and snot. It was not my finest moment, but it was the beginning of my grieving journey. Mom passed peacefully about an hour later.
We see a lot of hard things in healthcare. We see a lot of death and are often de-sensitized to it. We are taught to compartmentalize it, and we go into function and duty mode. We forget this is a person, a family, and a loss. Perhaps it is the way we preserve our own sanity. In my almost 30 years in healthcare, I have never seen a beautiful death. Kim changed that for me, and I am eternally grateful. She has become the nurse that I strive to be. Please celebrate Kim, and pass along my eternal gratitude for the beautiful gift she selflessly gave my amazing mom and me.
Kim is the epitome of everything we want to be as a nurse. She is the embodiment of all the idealistic Florence Nightingale quotes we see. She treated my quirky little retired kindergarten teacher mom with such tenderness, compassion, dignity and respect in every move she made. Kim spoke to my mom, even introducing herself and explaining what and why she was doing something every time, even when mom was comatose. She checked on me often, ensured I was eating and getting home to rest, and navigated some pretty weird family dynamics (we all have that one person). Kim advocated with strength and conviction, knowing that I was bearing the burden of being the MPOA and sole "medical person" in the family. She expertly wove herself around the swarm of loved ones coming to say their goodbyes. Never once did she make us feel like we were in the way.
When it came time to withdraw care, and I pushed back on the cardiologist by declining an additional test, she stood steadfast in her support of me and my decision. She anticipated my needs, communicating with the hospitalist to get comfort care measures offered so I didn't have to ask. If you have never been in the position to have to make that heart-wrenching decision, it is truly awful. You question yourself over and over, and then it finally happens. Kim stood and supported me, a complete stranger as if we had known each other for a lifetime, and this was her mom. She knew my brain and heart were on overload and preemptively and often offered me the information I needed so that I could make a decision. When I lost my words, she offered and enforced a pause. Kim asked open-ended questions, having me verbalize my thoughts so she could intercede. She blended medical science (lab results, imaging, etc.) into the conversation and met me where I was at. It was some sort of wizardry that should be bottled.
At one point I took a break in the hallway, and saw a wooden wreath she had hung on the door. It had a sign that simply read: "After checking with the nurse... PAUSE, Quietly enter this sacred space, embrace this special family with gentle kindness and love." I understand these wreaths to be unique to this unit, but it is the most amazing gift anyone could provide for a family. I certainly see it as a best practice.
On the night mom passed, Kim stopped by her room on the way out after her shift. The bag and lunch box were in tow, and she came to reassure me that it was going to be okay. She asked one last time if there was anything else that I needed. I asked for a hug, and I am not a hugger. She agreed, and I proceeded to hug her while also soaking her shoulder with tears and make-up and snot. It was not my finest moment, but it was the beginning of my grieving journey. Mom passed peacefully about an hour later.
We see a lot of hard things in healthcare. We see a lot of death and are often de-sensitized to it. We are taught to compartmentalize it, and we go into function and duty mode. We forget this is a person, a family, and a loss. Perhaps it is the way we preserve our own sanity. In my almost 30 years in healthcare, I have never seen a beautiful death. Kim changed that for me, and I am eternally grateful. She has become the nurse that I strive to be. Please celebrate Kim, and pass along my eternal gratitude for the beautiful gift she selflessly gave my amazing mom and me.