A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat – NEJM
A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat
David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.
N Engl J Med 2007; 357:328-329 July 26, two thousand seven DOI: Ten.1056/NEJMp078108
Oscar the Cat awakens from his nap, opening a single eye to survey his kingdom. From atop the desk in the doctor’s charting area, the cat peers down the two wings of the nursing home’s advanced dementia unit. All quiet on the western and eastern fronts. Leisurely, he rises and extravagantly opens up his 2-year-old framework, very first backward and then forward. He sits up and considers his next stir.
In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living on the dementia unit’s third floor for three years now. She has long forgotten her family, even tho’ they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her T-shirt, Mrs. P. is taking one of her many aimless strolls to nowhere. She glides toward Oscar, pushing her walker and muttering to herself with finish disregard for her surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar witnesses her cautiously and, as she walks by, lets out a gentle hiss, a rattlesnake-like warning that says “leave me alone.” She passes him without a glance and proceeds down the hallway. Oscar is eased. It is not yet Mrs. P.’s time, and he wants nothing to do with her.
Oscar leaps down off the desk, relaxed to be once more alone and in control of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from his water cup and grab a quick bite. Pleased, he loves another spread and sets out on his rounds. Oscar determines to head down the west wing very first, along the way sidestepping Mr. S., who is slumped over on a couch in the hallway. With lips slightly pursed, he snores peacefully — perhaps blissfully unaware of where he is now living. Oscar resumes down the hallway until he reaches its end and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and waits. He has significant business here.
Twenty-five minutes later, the door ultimately opens, and out walks a nurse’s aide carrying dirty linens. “Hello, Oscar,” she says. “Are you going inwards?” Oscar lets her pass, then makes his way into the room, where there are two people. Lounging in a corner bed and facing the wall, Mrs. T. is asleep in a fetal position. Her assets is skinny and wasted from the breast cancer that has been eating away at her organs. She is mildly jaundiced and has not spoken in several days. Sitting next to her is her daughter, who glances up from her novel to warmly greet the visitor. “Hello, Oscar. How are you today?”
Oscar takes no notice of the woman and leaps up onto the bed. He surveys Mrs. T. She is clearly in the terminal phase of illness, and her breathing is labored. Oscar’s examination is interrupted by a nurse, who walks in to ask the daughter whether Mrs. T. is awkward and needs more morphine. The daughter jiggles her head, and the nurse retreats. Oscar comebacks to his work. He sniffs the air, gives Mrs. T. one final look, then leaps off the bed and quickly leaves the room. Not today.
Making his way back up the hallway, Oscar arrives at Room 313. The door is open, and he proceeds inwards. Mrs. K. is resting peacefully in her bed, her breathing stable but shallow. She is surrounded by photographs of her grandchildren and one from her wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she is alone. Oscar hops onto her bed and again sniffs the air. He pauses to consider the situation, and then turns around twice before curling up beside Mrs. K.
One hour passes. Oscar waits. A nurse walks into the room to check on her patient. She pauses to note Oscar’s presence. Worried, she hurriedly leaves the room and comebacks to her desk. She grabs Mrs. K.’s chart off the medical-records rack and starts to make phone calls.
Within a half hour the family starts to arrive. Chairs are brought into the room, where the relatives begin their vigil. The priest is called to produce last rites. And still, Oscar has not budged, instead purring and gently nuzzling Mrs. K. A youthfull grandson asks his mother, “What is the cat doing here?” The mother, fighting back tears, tells him, “He is here to help Grandma get to heaven.” Thirty minutes later, Mrs. K. takes her last earthly breath. With this, Oscar sits up, looks around, then departs the room so calmly that the grieving family slightly notices.
On his way back to the charting area, Oscar passes a plaque mounted on the wall. On it is engraved a commendation from a local hospice agency: “For his compassionate hospice care, this plaque is awarded to Oscar the Cat.” Oscar takes a quick drink of water and comebacks to his desk to curl up for a long rest. His day’s work is done. There will be no more deaths today, not in Room three hundred ten or in any other room for that matter. After all, no one dies on the third floor unless Oscar pays a visit and stays awhile.
Note: Since he was adopted by staff members as a kitten, Oscar the Cat has had an uncanny capability to predict when residents are about to die. Thus far, he has presided over the deaths of more than twenty five residents on the third floor of Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence, Rhode Island. His mere presence at the bedside is viewed by physicians and nursing home staff as an almost absolute indicator of oncoming death, permitting staff members to adequately notify families. Oscar has also provided companionship to those who would otherwise have died alone. For his work, he is very regarded by the physicians and staff at Steere House and by the families of the residents whom he serves.
Source Information
Dr. Dosa is a geriatrician at Rhode Island Hospital and an assistant professor of medicine at the Warren Alpert Medical School of Brown University — both in Providence.
A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat – NEJM
A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat
David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.
N Engl J Med 2007; 357:328-329 July 26, two thousand seven DOI: Ten.1056/NEJMp078108
Oscar the Cat awakens from his nap, opening a single eye to survey his kingdom. From atop the desk in the doctor’s charting area, the cat peers down the two wings of the nursing home’s advanced dementia unit. All quiet on the western and eastern fronts. Leisurely, he rises and extravagantly opens up his 2-year-old framework, very first backward and then forward. He sits up and considers his next stir.
In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living on the dementia unit’s third floor for three years now. She has long forgotten her family, even however they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her T-shirt, Mrs. P. is taking one of her many aimless strolls to nowhere. She glides toward Oscar, pushing her walker and muttering to herself with finish disregard for her surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar observes her cautiously and, as she walks by, lets out a gentle hiss, a rattlesnake-like warning that says “leave me alone.” She passes him without a glance and proceeds down the hallway. Oscar is relaxed. It is not yet Mrs. P.’s time, and he wants nothing to do with her.
Oscar leaps down off the desk, loosened to be once more alone and in control of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from his water cup and grab a quick bite. Pleased, he likes another spread and sets out on his rounds. Oscar determines to head down the west wing very first, along the way sidestepping Mr. S., who is slumped over on a couch in the hallway. With lips slightly pursed, he snores peacefully — perhaps blissfully unaware of where he is now living. Oscar proceeds down the hallway until he reaches its end and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and waits. He has significant business here.
Twenty-five minutes later, the door eventually opens, and out walks a nurse’s aide carrying dirty linens. “Hello, Oscar,” she says. “Are you going inwards?” Oscar lets her pass, then makes his way into the room, where there are two people. Lounging in a corner bed and facing the wall, Mrs. T. is asleep in a fetal position. Her figure is skinny and wasted from the breast cancer that has been eating away at her organs. She is mildly jaundiced and has not spoken in several days. Sitting next to her is her daughter, who glances up from her novel to warmly greet the visitor. “Hello, Oscar. How are you today?”
Oscar takes no notice of the woman and leaps up onto the bed. He surveys Mrs. T. She is clearly in the terminal phase of illness, and her breathing is labored. Oscar’s examination is interrupted by a nurse, who walks in to ask the daughter whether Mrs. T. is awkward and needs more morphine. The daughter wiggles her head, and the nurse retreats. Oscar comes back to his work. He sniffs the air, gives Mrs. T. one final look, then hops off the bed and quickly leaves the room. Not today.
Making his way back up the hallway, Oscar arrives at Room 313. The door is open, and he proceeds inwards. Mrs. K. is resting peacefully in her bed, her breathing constant but shallow. She is surrounded by photographs of her grandchildren and one from her wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she is alone. Oscar hops onto her bed and again sniffs the air. He pauses to consider the situation, and then turns around twice before curling up beside Mrs. K.
One hour passes. Oscar waits. A nurse walks into the room to check on her patient. She pauses to note Oscar’s presence. Worried, she hurriedly leaves the room and comebacks to her desk. She grabs Mrs. K.’s chart off the medical-records rack and starts to make phone calls.
Within a half hour the family starts to arrive. Chairs are brought into the room, where the relatives begin their vigil. The priest is called to produce last rites. And still, Oscar has not budged, instead purring and gently nuzzling Mrs. K. A youthful grandson asks his mother, “What is the cat doing here?” The mother, fighting back tears, tells him, “He is here to help Grandma get to heaven.” Thirty minutes later, Mrs. K. takes her last earthly breath. With this, Oscar sits up, looks around, then departs the room so calmly that the grieving family hardly notices.
On his way back to the charting area, Oscar passes a plaque mounted on the wall. On it is engraved a commendation from a local hospice agency: “For his compassionate hospice care, this plaque is awarded to Oscar the Cat.” Oscar takes a quick drink of water and comes back to his desk to curl up for a long rest. His day’s work is done. There will be no more deaths today, not in Room three hundred ten or in any other room for that matter. After all, no one dies on the third floor unless Oscar pays a visit and stays awhile.
Note: Since he was adopted by staff members as a kitten, Oscar the Cat has had an uncanny capability to predict when residents are about to die. Thus far, he has presided over the deaths of more than twenty five residents on the third floor of Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence, Rhode Island. His mere presence at the bedside is viewed by physicians and nursing home staff as an almost absolute indicator of forthcoming death, permitting staff members to adequately notify families. Oscar has also provided companionship to those who would otherwise have died alone. For his work, he is very regarded by the physicians and staff at Steere House and by the families of the residents whom he serves.
Source Information
Dr. Dosa is a geriatrician at Rhode Island Hospital and an assistant professor of medicine at the Warren Alpert Medical School of Brown University — both in Providence.
A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat – NEJM
A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat
David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.
N Engl J Med 2007; 357:328-329 July 26, two thousand seven DOI: Ten.1056/NEJMp078108
Oscar the Cat awakens from his nap, opening a single eye to survey his kingdom. From atop the desk in the doctor’s charting area, the cat peers down the two wings of the nursing home’s advanced dementia unit. All quiet on the western and eastern fronts. Leisurely, he rises and extravagantly spreads his 2-year-old framework, very first backward and then forward. He sits up and considers his next budge.
In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living on the dementia unit’s third floor for three years now. She has long forgotten her family, even however they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her T-shirt, Mrs. P. is taking one of her many aimless strolls to nowhere. She glides toward Oscar, pushing her walker and muttering to herself with finish disregard for her surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar sees her cautiously and, as she walks by, lets out a gentle hiss, a rattlesnake-like warning that says “leave me alone.” She passes him without a glance and resumes down the hallway. Oscar is relaxed. It is not yet Mrs. P.’s time, and he wants nothing to do with her.
Oscar hops down off the desk, relaxed to be once more alone and in control of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from his water cup and grab a quick bite. Pleased, he likes another spread and sets out on his rounds. Oscar determines to head down the west wing very first, along the way sidestepping Mr. S., who is slumped over on a couch in the hallway. With lips slightly pursed, he snores peacefully — perhaps blissfully unaware of where he is now living. Oscar resumes down the hallway until he reaches its end and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and waits. He has significant business here.
Twenty-five minutes later, the door eventually opens, and out walks a nurse’s aide carrying dirty linens. “Hello, Oscar,” she says. “Are you going inwards?” Oscar lets her pass, then makes his way into the room, where there are two people. Lounging in a corner bed and facing the wall, Mrs. T. is asleep in a fetal position. Her bod is skinny and wasted from the breast cancer that has been eating away at her organs. She is mildly jaundiced and has not spoken in several days. Sitting next to her is her daughter, who glances up from her novel to warmly greet the visitor. “Hello, Oscar. How are you today?”
Oscar takes no notice of the woman and leaps up onto the bed. He surveys Mrs. T. She is clearly in the terminal phase of illness, and her breathing is labored. Oscar’s examination is interrupted by a nurse, who walks in to ask the daughter whether Mrs. T. is awkward and needs more morphine. The daughter wiggles her head, and the nurse retreats. Oscar comes back to his work. He sniffs the air, gives Mrs. T. one final look, then hops off the bed and quickly leaves the room. Not today.
Making his way back up the hallway, Oscar arrives at Room 313. The door is open, and he proceeds inwards. Mrs. K. is resting peacefully in her bed, her breathing stable but shallow. She is surrounded by photographs of her grandchildren and one from her wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she is alone. Oscar hops onto her bed and again sniffs the air. He pauses to consider the situation, and then turns around twice before curling up beside Mrs. K.
One hour passes. Oscar waits. A nurse walks into the room to check on her patient. She pauses to note Oscar’s presence. Worried, she hurriedly leaves the room and comes back to her desk. She grabs Mrs. K.’s chart off the medical-records rack and embarks to make phone calls.
Within a half hour the family starts to arrive. Chairs are brought into the room, where the relatives begin their vigil. The priest is called to produce last rites. And still, Oscar has not budged, instead purring and gently nuzzling Mrs. K. A youthful grandson asks his mother, “What is the cat doing here?” The mother, fighting back tears, tells him, “He is here to help Grandma get to heaven.” Thirty minutes later, Mrs. K. takes her last earthly breath. With this, Oscar sits up, looks around, then departs the room so calmly that the grieving family hardly notices.
On his way back to the charting area, Oscar passes a plaque mounted on the wall. On it is engraved a commendation from a local hospice agency: “For his compassionate hospice care, this plaque is awarded to Oscar the Cat.” Oscar takes a quick drink of water and comes back to his desk to curl up for a long rest. His day’s work is done. There will be no more deaths today, not in Room three hundred ten or in any other room for that matter. After all, no one dies on the third floor unless Oscar pays a visit and stays awhile.
Note: Since he was adopted by staff members as a kitten, Oscar the Cat has had an uncanny capability to predict when residents are about to die. Thus far, he has presided over the deaths of more than twenty five residents on the third floor of Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence, Rhode Island. His mere presence at the bedside is viewed by physicians and nursing home staff as an almost absolute indicator of emerging death, permitting staff members to adequately notify families. Oscar has also provided companionship to those who would otherwise have died alone. For his work, he is very regarded by the physicians and staff at Steere House and by the families of the residents whom he serves.
Source Information
Dr. Dosa is a geriatrician at Rhode Island Hospital and an assistant professor of medicine at the Warren Alpert Medical School of Brown University — both in Providence.