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Bizarre, gentle days are natural way 'out'
(by Lauri Gross - September 02, 2010)
VITAL TRIFLE, BY LAURI GROSS
Bizarre, gentle days are natural way 'out'
My father-in-law recently passed away at the age of 88, after he requested that we place him in hospice care so he could stop fighting the forces of nature he knew would soon overcome him.
Now that he is no longer with us, we can look back and mark the beginning of his physical demise about two years earlier, with a succession of falls and broken bones and complications from various surgeries. But his real downfall began with a broken heart in 2003, when his wife of more than 50 years succumbed to kidney failure.
Throughout his last few years, we tried to help Judd navigate his new life, which was full of doctors, aides, medication, pain, surgery, ambulances and emergency rooms, but also full of gentle, caring, nurturing professionals helping him find joy in life until the end.
Having not visited a nursing home since my own grandfather was near the end of his life, when I was a young teen, I was surprised to visit my father-in-law in his modern, bright and beautiful care facility that was always full of laughter and joy.
On one visit, I spotted an aide practically skipping through the place, a patient at her side, inching along on a walker. In a sing-song voice and with spur-of-the-moment rhymes, the aide was encouraging her charge to keep up the good work. Anne, the 90-year-old patient, held firmly to the rails of her walker as she carefully made her way to her destination. Finally, she said to Kelly, her aide, "What did you drink this morning?" and then shot me a smirk and a wink.
This facility features a large, airy, open and bright dining area with several round tables where family members can join patients for a meal. Usually, the men and women sat at separate tables, and I have to say the women's table seemed more fun. Sometimes the men also had a laugh, but it was the help that kept things really interesting. They would flit about from patient to patient, making sure each was able to enjoy a meal that met their sometimes-restricted requirements. Need your food pureed? Can't eat salt? Only sugar-free foods for you? No problem. Between the kitchen staff, the aides and nurses, there were plenty of people to cater to everyone's needs and whims.
In private rooms, staff members would sit on beds for long heart-to-heart talks about various issues of concern to their patients. They offered back scratches, massaged lotion into dry skin, listened to plenty of stories of how life used to be and, of course, performed multitudes of more official functions like helping people get dressed, checking vital signs and administering piles of medications.
The staff also offered endless encouragement, sometimes with a hug, a kiss and an "I love you." When patients in rehab became well enough to move out, the transition was often marked with tears flowing from the eyes of patients and staff alike.
My father-in-law's stay in the rehab facility was preceded by a stint with live-in help in his home of 50-plus years, then several hospital stays and finally a move to an assisted-living apartment. After a setback landed him in the rehab wing of the assisted-living complex, he eventually made his way back to his assisted-living apartment.
Things were looking up, but then one more hospitalization proved too much for him to overcome. He stopped eating. He refused blood tests, IVs and scans. He announced he was done fighting and wanted "out."
In his typical method of taking control and laying out the steps of a plan and trying to ensure things were done his way, he simply requested that we hand him a gun so he could do the job himself. Even if we had laid one on his bed covers, I doubt he would have had the strength at that point to put the thing to any use. Of course, we told him that we could not offer him a gun but that we could offer him hospice. You'd think we offered him a Caribbean cruise. He was eager to become a hospice patient.
The next 10 days or so were surreal. Hospice was terrible and wonderful all at the same time. The hospice doctor, nurses and social workers were attentive, professional, humane, understanding and patient. Also, they were precisely correct as they kept us well informed of Judd's "progress."
In their steadfast commitment to keep him comfortable, they kept a keen eye on a litany of indicators that he was having trouble breathing or uncomfortable for any other reason, as they took steps to alleviate the discomfort while no longer trying to prolong his life. They suggested Judd would last about 10 days. A later visit led a nurse to believe he was in his last three. Then one morning, visiting him shortly after I did, the nurse informed us that she thought that would be the day he left. And it was.
Judd's round-the-clock private-duty caregivers were with him till the end, and several even showed up at his funeral.
The whole process of helping someone die or allowing them to choose to do so was bizarre, tortuous, prolonged and barbaric but also humane, gentle and natural. Maybe someday there will be additional options for leaving this life, but in the meantime, I'm thankful for hospice.
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