One of the sad parts of my job is having our patients die. It is inevitable when working in healthcare, but it isn't something I was prepared for when I started the job.
Because I'm not a doctor I never imagined that doing an administrative role as a receptionist would mean that sometimes I would have to come into contact with death, and it's not easy, not easy for anyone, but it also impacts on us non-clinical staff.
In the past week we have had three patients pass away. On hearing of the death of one in particular, it made me cry a little because I had come to know this person for the brief moments (sometimes not so brief if the doctor was running late) while they sat in the waiting room and we would chat and laugh. We talked about family and Christmas plans and how they were coping with a tough health diagnosis, and it became a warm, superficial relationship that somehow didn't feel superficial because we shared so much and I grew to like them and care about them.
And then they died.
It dawns on you that you'll never see them again. They're never going to walk through those doors and pass the time of day with you ever again. They knew your name and you knew theirs, and now that is gone.
Processing a death in a medical centre as an administrator felt like such a cold, heartless procedure when I first started in this job.
Upon hearing of the death, you immediately have to attend to it. It stops texts and recalls and notifications going out to the person's phone who has died, which could be distressing to the family. I understand why it has to be done but at first it seemed cold and heartless, ruthless even.
But I've become accustomed to it now, and now I consider it an honour. One of the last administrative tasks that is performed for a life that saw medical events and procedures and physical challenges and a documented relationship with a doctor.
I've made it into my own little ritual. When I was a child and teenager, I used to keep a book with all the names of people I knew who had died. I don't know why I did it, I just thought it was a nice thing to do, to remember them.
Processing a death at work feels like something similar.
First you have to un-enrol them from the healthcare system and record the date of death. You have to pull their enrolment form with their signature from the files and it often has a photo attached to it, and this brings back memories of your own encounters with that person. I like to think about those times for a bit before I move onto the next stage. I like to think and remember who they were and the times I interacted with them, and I think of their family and the sadness they must be going through as they process a sorrow far deeper than mine.
The final stage is finding all their medical history. Where I work, this means going into the dark storage room and finding the folder that holds the tangible evidence of their birth, life and now death. It is all bundled together and placed in a file.
I write their full name carefully across the top with the date of death, and then I carry it to another place where it is stored for 10 years. This is a legal requirement. Writing their full name feels important. Like a statement saying this person lived. This person had a name, a family, a connection with people and community and they were somebody.
It's such a small job. A small, last ritual. An important one, but such a small one, but I like the privilege of carrying it out - one of the last services I can do for them.
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