Oscar, the death cat

Probaby been posted before, but worth repeating:

http://content.nejm.org/cgi/content/full/357/4/328

A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat

David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.


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. Slowly, he rises and extravagantly
stretches his 2-year-old frame, first backward and then forward. He sits up
and considers his next move.

In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living
on the dementia unit's third floor for 3 years now. She has long forgotten
her family, even though they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled
after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her 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 complete disregard for her
surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar watches her carefully 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 continues down the hallway.
Oscar is relieved. It is not yet Mrs. P.'s time, and he wants nothing to do
with her.

Oscar jumps down off the desk, relieved to be once more alone and in control
of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from his water bowl and grab
a quick bite. Satisfied, he enjoys another stretch and sets out on his
rounds. Oscar decides to head down the west wing 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 continues down the hallway until he reaches
its end and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and waits. He has
important business here.

Twenty-five minutes later, the door finally opens, and out walks a nurse's
aide carrying dirty linens. "Hello, Oscar," she says. "Are you going
inside?" Oscar lets her pass, then makes his way into the room, where there
are two people. Lying in a corner bed and facing the wall, Mrs. T. is asleep
in a fetal position. Her body is thin 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 uncomfortable and needs more morphine.
The daughter shakes her head, and the nurse retreats. Oscar returns to his
work. He sniffs the air, gives Mrs. T. one final look, then jumps 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 inside. Mrs. K. is resting peacefully in her bed, her
breathing steady but shallow. She is surrounded by photographs of her
grandchildren and one from her wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she is
alone. Oscar jumps 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. Concerned, she hurriedly
leaves the room and returns to her desk. She grabs Mrs. K.'s chart off the
medical-records rack and begins 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 deliver
last rites. And still, Oscar has not budged, instead purring and gently
nuzzling Mrs. K. A young 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
quietly that the grieving family barely 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 returns 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 310 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 ability to predict when residents are about to die. Thus far,
he has presided over the deaths of more than 25 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 impending death, allowing
staff members to adequately notify families. Oscar has also provided
companionship to those who would otherwise have died alone. For his work, he
is highly 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.

The New England Medical Journal
Volume 357:328-329 July 26, 2007 Number 4

Yes, I've heard about that. It seems a bit eerie, but I have no trouble
believing it.

--
Joy

"Listen for differences. Seek them out. Don't surround yourself only with
those who see the world as you do." - Grant Cornwell

"Yowie" wrote in message
...
Probaby been posted before, but worth repeating:

http://content.nejm.org/cgi/content/full/357/4/328

A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat

David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.


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. Slowly, he rises and extravagantly
stretches his 2-year-old frame, first backward and then forward. He sits
up and considers his next move.

In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living
on the dementia unit's third floor for 3 years now. She has long forgotten
her family, even though they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled
after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her 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 complete disregard
for her surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar watches her carefully 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 continues down the
hallway. Oscar is relieved. It is not yet Mrs. P.'s time, and he wants
nothing to do with her.

Oscar jumps down off the desk, relieved to be once more alone and in
control of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from his water bowl
and grab a quick bite. Satisfied, he enjoys another stretch and sets out
on his rounds. Oscar decides to head down the west wing 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 continues down the hallway until
he reaches its end and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and
waits. He has important business here.

Twenty-five minutes later, the door finally opens, and out walks a nurse's
aide carrying dirty linens. "Hello, Oscar," she says. "Are you going
inside?" Oscar lets her pass, then makes his way into the room, where
there are two people. Lying in a corner bed and facing the wall, Mrs. T.
is asleep in a fetal position. Her body is thin 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 uncomfortable and needs more morphine.
The daughter shakes her head, and the nurse retreats. Oscar returns to his
work. He sniffs the air, gives Mrs. T. one final look, then jumps 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 inside. Mrs. K. is resting peacefully in her bed,
her breathing steady but shallow. She is surrounded by photographs of her
grandchildren and one from her wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she
is alone. Oscar jumps 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. Concerned, she hurriedly
leaves the room and returns to her desk. She grabs Mrs. K.'s chart off the
medical-records rack and begins 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
deliver last rites. And still, Oscar has not budged, instead purring and
gently nuzzling Mrs. K. A young 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 quietly that the grieving family barely 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 returns 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 310 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 ability to predict when residents are about to die. Thus
far, he has presided over the deaths of more than 25 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
impending death, allowing staff members to adequately notify families.
Oscar has also provided companionship to those who would otherwise have
died alone. For his work, he is highly 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.

The New England Medical Journal
Volume 357:328-329 July 26, 2007 Number 4

hopitus wrote:

I have long been a believer that cats can see things that we can't.
I am glad I can't see what Oscar sees.

I'm glad I can't see them, either, but if I were about to die, I might
appreciate having a cat purr me off this mortal coil.

Joyce

--
I will not sniff at my male human's feet after he takes his shoes off,
freeze my mouth open in disgust and then sniff my private parts to compare
odors. -- Cat Resolutions

Thank you so much for posting that Yowie, I'm sitting here in tears...
Love
Kyla

"Yowie"
Probaby been posted before, but worth repeating:

http://content.nejm.org/cgi/content/full/357/4/328

A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat

David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.


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. Slowly, he rises and extravagantly
stretches his 2-year-old frame, first backward and then forward. He sits
up and considers his next move.

In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living
on the dementia unit's third floor for 3 years now. She has long forgotten
her family, even though they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled
after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her 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 complete disregard
for her surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar watches her carefully 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 continues down the
hallway. Oscar is relieved. It is not yet Mrs. P.'s time, and he wants
nothing to do with her.

Oscar jumps down off the desk, relieved to be once more alone and in
control of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from his water bowl
and grab a quick bite. Satisfied, he enjoys another stretch and sets out
on his rounds. Oscar decides to head down the west wing 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 continues down the hallway until
he reaches its end and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and
waits. He has important business here.

Twenty-five minutes later, the door finally opens, and out walks a nurse's
aide carrying dirty linens. "Hello, Oscar," she says. "Are you going
inside?" Oscar lets her pass, then makes his way into the room, where
there are two people. Lying in a corner bed and facing the wall, Mrs. T.
is asleep in a fetal position. Her body is thin 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 uncomfortable and needs more morphine.
The daughter shakes her head, and the nurse retreats. Oscar returns to his
work. He sniffs the air, gives Mrs. T. one final look, then jumps 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 inside. Mrs. K. is resting peacefully in her bed,
her breathing steady but shallow. She is surrounded by photographs of her
grandchildren and one from her wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she
is alone. Oscar jumps 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. Concerned, she hurriedly
leaves the room and returns to her desk. She grabs Mrs. K.'s chart off the
medical-records rack and begins 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
deliver last rites. And still, Oscar has not budged, instead purring and
gently nuzzling Mrs. K. A young 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 quietly that the grieving family barely 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 returns 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 310 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 ability to predict when residents are about to die. Thus
far, he has presided over the deaths of more than 25 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
impending death, allowing staff members to adequately notify families.
Oscar has also provided companionship to those who would otherwise have
died alone. For his work, he is highly 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.

The New England Medical Journal
Volume 357:328-329 July 26, 2007 Number 4

Kelly Greene wrote:

"hopitus" wrote in message

I have long been a believer that cats can see things that we can't.
I am glad I can't see what Oscar sees.

Or smell things we cannot smell - like pheromones. Perhaps the dying give
off a scent he can pick up.

That's my theory, speaking as a non-expert on the subject, and I'm
sticking to it!

Did anyone see the "House" episode about this? A nurse thinks she's
about to die because the cat who lives in the nursing home where she
works - who was modeled on Oscar - slept with her one night while
she was there on duty. But they made it seem like people thought the
cat could predict deaths via some kind of supernatural power. So of
course House was going to sneer at that! This was a false choice
("science vs supernatural"). It completely sidesteps the question of
whether the cat could tell someone was dying for entirely natural reasons.

Joyce

--
If At First You Don't Succeed, Skydiving Isn't For You

wrote in message

Kelly Greene wrote:

"hopitus" wrote in message

I have long been a believer that cats can see things that we can't.
I am glad I can't see what Oscar sees.

Or smell things we cannot smell - like pheromones. Perhaps the dying
give off a scent he can pick up.

That's my theory, speaking as a non-expert on the subject, and I'm
sticking to it!

Did anyone see the "House" episode about this? A nurse thinks she's
about to die because the cat who lives in the nursing home where she
works - who was modeled on Oscar - slept with her one night while
she was there on duty. But they made it seem like people thought the
cat could predict deaths via some kind of supernatural power. So of
course House was going to sneer at that! This was a false choice
("science vs supernatural"). It completely sidesteps the question of
whether the cat could tell someone was dying for entirely natural
reasons.

As an anecdotal data point, when Joel's mother was in palliative care, most
of the time the room smelt vaguely like ginger, and is the same smell Joel
gets when he's sick. However, the last 2 times we saw her (about 6 hours
before she died, and her last few minutes) the room had started to smell
something like lavender.

I do not know if the smell was in any way related to her condition, although
its strange that Joel also gets that 'sick' ginger-like smell.

Yowie
--
If you're paddling upstream in a canoe and a wheel falls off, how many
pancakes can you fit in a doghouse? None, icecream doesn't have bones.

"hopitus" wrote in message
...
On Jan 15, 3:00 am, bastXXXe. wrote:
"hopitus" wrote in message

I have long been a believer that cats can see things that we can't.
I am glad I can't see what Oscar sees.
Or smell things we cannot smell - like pheromones. Perhaps the dying
give
off a scent he can pick up.

That's my theory, speaking as a non-expert on the subject, and I'm
sticking to it!

Did anyone see the "House" episode about this? A nurse thinks she's
about to die because the cat who lives in the nursing home where she
works - who was modeled on Oscar - slept with her one night while
she was there on duty. But they made it seem like people thought the
cat could predict deaths via some kind of supernatural power. So of
course House was going to sneer at that! This was a false choice
("science vs supernatural"). It completely sidesteps the question of
whether the cat could tell someone was dying for entirely natural reasons.

Joyce

I love "House" and all its well-defined characters, including the
tormented
main one.....but something else I watch frequently (dunno what) shares
the
same broadcast time frame, so I don't see every episode. Missed this
one.
A great med series, IMHO. My only criticism is that most of the
diseases
they not only mention but end up as the correct dx (usually by House)
are
so unusual and rare in RL that to anyone who ever worked in medicine
where
they actually worked on patients it might very well be a source of
ROFL at the
probability in RL (but majority of audience has no interest in nor
knowledge of
this hilarious habit by show's writers).

***

I guess they figure more common diseases would be too easy to diagnose, so
wouldn't make good stories. I enjoy the series too.

Joy

hopitus wrote:

A great med series, IMHO. My only criticism is that most of the
diseases they not only mention but end up as the correct dx (usually
by House) are so unusual and rare in RL that to anyone who ever
worked in medicine where they actually worked on patients it might
very well be a source of ROFL at the probability in RL

My sister is a physician's assistant (PA), and she thinks that show
is ridiculous. Not so much because of the way-out diseases, but because
no doctor in real life could ever get away with the behavior that House
does in every episode. A real doctor who acted like that would have had
his ass fired on day one. I'm more willing to suspend disbelief, but I
don't work in a hospital.

I do detest the notion that there should be different standards of
conduct for people according to how much talent, intelligence, money
or good looks they have. I think everyone should be held to the same
standards of good behavior. So for that reason, I have a bone to pick
with that show. But I do have to admit that Hugh Laurie gets the best
lines. He's also head and shoulders above everyone else in the cast,
although Omar Epps has created a vivid character, too. The others are
unremarkable, IMO, except the woman who plays Cameron - she stands
out as being particularly bad.

For those who like medical mysteries but find "House" too obnoxious,
there's a great real-life medical mystery show on cable called "Mystery
Diagnosis". That one also features rare conditions, which can sometimes
go many years without being correctly diagnosed. People live for years
or even decades with debilitating pain and other weird symptoms, getting
one wrong diagnosis (and treatment) after another, until they finally
see a doctor who just happens to get the right hunch, and hits on the
solution. It's pretty fascinating.

Joyce

--
The Internet is on computers now! -- Homer Simpson