A new Providence consumer campaign urges our patients “to come exactly as you are; bring your whole self—mind, body, spirit—and we will always walk alongside you. Because “We see the life in you.”
My husband, Mike Kelley, was a cancer patient for nearly two years at Providence Portland Medical Center. On Christmas Eve 2018, he was diagnosed with Stage IV head and neck cancer. When my friend and colleague Bryan Bell, MD, DDS, delivered the news, his eyes looked misty.
Mike was in the other room when Bryan came to me and said “Laurie, this is really not good.” I didn’t remember how I responded, but Bryan later reminded me that I said, “Mike is my everything. What can you do?”
From that moment forward, for the next 22 months, together we battled cancer.
Just weeks before his dire diagnosis, we were at an event honoring Mike.
From December 2018 to October 2020, through COVID and everything the pandemic brought, Mike endured more pain and tough times than he’d ever expected in his 60 years. But we also experienced hope and the gift of knowing he was deeply loved, admired, and well cared for.
We went through so much during Mike’s cancer battle, but for the purpose of this article, I want to focus on his last couple of weeks.
On September 29, 2020, Mike was admitted to Providence Portland Medical Center to stabilize the intense pain from his cancer. Even though his health seemed to be heading downward, we did not think he would die. He had another clinical trial scheduled for October and we were still hoping for a miracle.
Mike was always the comeback kid. We thought he could even beat cancer. Less than two weeks later his life would end at Providence Portland Medical Center.
As sad as this story is, what happened between the walls of 7 North for 12 days was nothing short of miraculous. The nurses, therapists, doctors, pharmacists, chaplains, administrators, docs in training, food service workers, housekeepers, phlebotomists, CNAs (and anyone else I am missing) allowed us to make memories that we’ll hold onto for the rest of our lives.
I’d been caring for Mike at home by myself and it had reached a point where I needed some help and equipment to manage. We’d had an incident where the two of us couldn’t get him moved from our bathroom to his wheelchair to get him back to bed. I had to call in the fire department. Very hard stuff: you truly cannot imagine what people go through.
I was constantly surprised at what we faced together and thought about the older couples or people by themselves that we’d see at the Cancer Institute. Some people had Uber drivers picking them up from treatment. How were they managing?
I knew his pain had become insufferable, but he wasn’t complaining. I wanted him to check into the hospital to get his pain under control. Providence Home Health was called to bring equipment for his return home. At first I thought his pain would stabilize and he would go on to another t-cell clinical trial with Dr. Eric Tran on October 15. As the days went on, things weren’t as certain.
I knew Mike wanted to die at home, but our primary oncologist, Dr. Rom Leidner, didn’t feel we would be able to manage the complexities of his case and his pain at home. So we stayed.
What we came to find out is that not too many people die in the hospital anymore. As it became more apparent that this could happen, I felt the support of the entire floor. Here is Dr. Leidner talking to Mike. He saw the life in Mike.
For those of us who think what we are doing is a job, stay for a week on 7 North. These caregivers are called to this work.
I stayed in Mike’s room for 12 days and nights. His caregiving team had no idea who we were , that I had a leadership role with Providence foundations—they cared for us the way they would have cared for their own family members.
Every night the nurses would ask me if we needed more items to make us more comfortable. One nurse would write me a note as she left for home in the morning to let me know Mike did well through the night and she didn’t want to wake me.
This was where I slept for 12 nights.
In the morning, the medical residents would come by. There were three or four of them. Two in particular, saw us and I could almost read their minds, “These could be my parents.” They asked Mike a lot of questions about his pain and how he was feeling. They asked us questions about our family and where we lived, what we like to do around Portland. Again, it felt like a real connection. “We see the life in you.”
My colleagues, true embodiments of our mission, checked in often. Kendall Sawa was amazing, Kelly Schmidt, Dr. Urba, Dr. Bell, Dr. Leidner, Christa Farnham, Lisa Vance. Kendall stopped by and texted me every day to make sure we were okay. They saw the life in us.
The night before Mike died, I asked to talk to the chaplain. There was no Catholic priest on duty. I said it was fine, send whoever is available. This young chaplain came in. The first thing I thought is that he looks and sounds just like one of my favorite comedians, John Mulaney.
We had a great talk about our relationship right in front of Mike. Mike wasn’t able to talk at that point, but he could hear. We prayed together and I felt a lot better. I worked a little as Mike slept and then I fell asleep. Around 2 am the nurse came in and said she thought Mike might be closer to death. She said we could call our kids to come in.
Within the hour our four adult kids were with Mike and me. I asked for the chaplain to come back. He gathered around all of us and asked the kids to talk about their dad and share a memory. We talked, we cried, we laughed, we prayed. When he left, our youngest daughter asked, “Was John Mulaney our chaplain?” We were able to laugh through our tears because of the comfort we got from the Providence team.
The next morning Mike died around 8 am. All the nurses came in. With masks on, we hugged. We looked out the windows and there was a rainbow.
The next morning Mike died around 8 am. All the nurses came in. With masks on, we hugged. We looked out the windows and there was a rainbow.
As I left the room after the kids and exited alone, I opened the door to his room and Brahms’s lullaby was playing in the hall—Providence’s notice that a baby had been born. Mike was the baby whisperer. Somehow, I took this and the rainbow as a positive sign from God and Mike.
A week or so later, I received cards from one of his doctors, many of the nurses on 7 North and the research nurses and pharmacists who worked with Mike on his drug trial.
The work that our caregiver teams do is life affirming and important. Maybe the most important work we can do on the short time we are here.
Now I know all too well the feeling that many of our caregivers, patients and families feel. It is an awful thing and I hope my experience and complicated newfound empathy will help me help others in my work and in my life. I see the life in you.
