When the family arrived -- a wheelchair-bound husband, two grown daughters with husbands, and one grandchild -- I escorted them to the family lounge just outside the unit. There were some other people there; sensing what was going on, these kind folks quickly moved their positions so that the Code family could all be together.
Immediately the daughters began using their cell phones, calling or texting everyone they could think of. One of them said, "I can't post to Facebook from my phone. Who can I call to get them to post?" They wanted everyone to know that Granny had taken a turn for the worse. When the resident came out to speak with them the first time, one of them even asked him to wait until she was finished her phone conversation. After hearing what he had to say, the texting and phoning resumed: Granny was very sick, indeed. There was another sister in a far-away state who needed frequent updates; then there were all of the other grandchildren, some of whom were at college or in other states. A lot of energy was put into what to do about one teenage grandson who was alone at home; they didn't want him to be alone when he heard about Granny's turn for the worse -- he had completely freaked out when the cat had died. My gentle suggestion to wait until Granny's condition was resolved before notifying this vulnerable lad fell on deaf ears. The dispatched a cousin to go over to tell him in person.
A bit later the nurse came out and suggested that the family might be more comfortable in an empty patient room, away from the crowd in the lounge. I knew this to be a euphemism for "bad news is coming," and went to help bring in additional chairs, get cups of water and tissue boxes. Once settled in the room, the efforts to communicate resumed. Messages that had been left previously had been picked up and the return calls were coming in. One of the phones didn't ring; instead, a grouchy, loud male voice would proclaim, "Answer Your Damn Phone!"
The chief resident came into the room and said, "I'm so sorry." He went on to explain how hard and long the team had worked to try to bring Granny back. At this point she had been gone for nearly an hour. The husband-turned-widower sat shocked in his wheelchair, but his daughters' main concern once again was to get the word out, to make sure everyone knew immediately. I watched all of this for a few minutes and then went over to the wheelchair. "How long have you and your wife been married?" I asked him. "Fifty-eight years" came the reply. A lifetime. He and I spoke quietly together while the daughters and granddaughter continued with the work they had deemed most important. Again I heard "Facebook" mentioned and "Answer Your Damn Phone!"
I was repulsed by their behavior. I thought back to a time when mobile telephones were not allowed to be used in the hospital and wished that were still the case. As much as I understand that Denial has its clear purpose in grief work, there was something wrong with this picture. They reminded me of the people who come to graduations and weddings, and miss the experience because they are so busy making a video to watch later on. None of his family was caring at all about the bereaved man in the wheelchair who had lost his life-long partner. I was glad that I could be there for him since they weren't.
Not soon enough, the batteries ran out; the phoning and texting came to an end. They put away their damn phones.
And then, the daughters began to cry.
