Tag: stress

Downhill

the Tall Girl # # #

Grandma’s condition deteriorated rapidly in the last 24 hours. When we left her last night, she was talking to us and everything seemed normal. Now, she doesn’t even know we’re there. We can’t believe how fast everything changed.

We don’t expect her to make it through the week.

Last night, before we left her, she said, “I guess you’ll be glad when you’re rid of me. You’ll be free to do whatever you want.” Mom denied it, but I didn’t say anything, because I knew in my heart that it would be such a relief when all this was over. Now, both we’re heartbroken over that conversation. You always hope that your last words with someone you love will be good ones.

You can’t always get what you want.

Little things

the Tall Girl # # #

When I was having my little emotional meltdown Saturday night, Mom kept telling me that, even when we’re overwhelmed with Grandma, we shouldn’t complain about my uncle because she doesn’t really want his help; he’ll let Grandma do whatever she wants rather than insisting on what she needs, which causes more problems than it solves. I could understand her point, but it still bothered me that we’re doing everything while he does almost nothing.

Yesterday, though, I had a bit of a revelation, and with it, a change of heart. Because he did something that we can’t do: he brought his granddaughters to visit. They had gone to a parade and they each brought a string of long pearlized beads for Grandma — a very appropriate gift since she’s always had a love of pearls. She was still smiling about it when I saw her last night, and that made such a difference for me. There’s so little that makes her really happy these days. If he can do that for her, that’s quite a contribution.

H is for Hospice

the Tall Girl # # #

When Grandma was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer 2 months ago, I urged Mom to learn about hospice. Everything I’d read was positive, and having been through a lot of scary drama during the last few days of my grandfather’s life, I strongly felt that this time we needed to be smart, be prepared, and take steps early on to ensure that the final days pass as smoothly and peacefully as possible.

Unfortunately, denial is pretty powerful — as are misinformation and fear. And so when Mom asked Grandma’s primary care doctor about hospice, she came away from the conversation frightened, with a skewed view of the facts and a very negative impression of what hospice does. She agreed to use home health services instead, despite the fact that they cared for my grandfather and were unable to make him comfortable in his final days.

Thankfully, my aunt (Mom’s sister-in-law) took over last week and did some research herself, calling the nearest hospice agency and discussing the situation with them. Based on that conversation, she scheduled a meeting for us to learn more about what hospice has to offer.

We spoke with the hospice rep for nearly 2 hours on Wednesday. It was emotionally grueling; Mom is extremely invested in Grandma’s care (she’s moved in with her and cared for her almost constantly the past 3 weeks) and isn’t ready to admit that Grandma’s condition is only going to deteriorate more as the days pass. The rest of us — me, Dad, Mom’s brother and his wife — all came away from the meeting in favor of switching to hospice now, before Grandma gets any worse; hospice personnel are cancer experts, and they’re most capable of guiding us through the minefield we have to navigate. But Mom has the final say, and even after 2 hours of discussion, Mom wasn’t ready to say yes.

Mom and I talked more yesterday and again today, going over the same details. No, they won’t give her morphine until she needs it. Yes, Grandma can still get treatment for anything other than the cancer. Yes, they’ll give her antibiotics if she needs them. Yes, you can call 911 if she has a heart attack while she’s still at home. No, they won’t take her to the hospice facility until it’s necessary. Yes, they’ll move her to the facility if she can’t get out of bed anymore. And on and on.

Mom said she needed to talk with a priest. I explained to her that she didn’t need permission from the church, that we aren’t required to keep someone alive with a machine (in this case, a ventilator) when there’s no chance of recovery.

She wanted to hear that from someone in authority.

But this afternoon, after meeting with a priest, Mom gave the order to Grandma’s doctor: we want to switch her to hospice care.

It was pretty tumultuous getting to this point, although I can understand Mom’s point of view: once she signs the papers, it’s real. No more false hope. No happy ending. But delaying just means a greater chance of the worst possible ending, of Grandma’s lung collapsing while she’s still in her home. And none of us want that.

A peaceful ending is the best any of us can expect. Sometimes, we just have to broaden our definition of peaceful.

Breathe

the Tall Girl # # #

My grandmother went to the doctor yesterday. As a precaution — probably at Mom’s urging — he gave her a prescription for oxygen. I went over there last night to find one of the big metal tanks lurking in the corner of the room.

My grandfather was on oxygen for several years at the end of his life. When he was at home, he had a machine that would distill the oxygen from water. But he had a collection of the tanks too, big ones and small ones, to use on the occasions he went out.

I honestly thought that, after he died, I’d never have to see one of those tanks again.

I can vividly remember, the day after Hurricane Katrina had passed, that he was on his last tank of oxygen. Dad and I loaded the empties into the trunk and set out in search of replacements.

We were in Meridian, Mississippi — a place where many of Dad’s relatives live, and a city that, despite being over 200 miles from the coast, still suffered a fair amount of damage from Katrina. The city was like a ghost town: hardly any cars on the street and no businesses open. Electricity was out almost everywhere, a result of downed trees and other damage throughout the area. Not knowing what else to do, we went to one of the hospitals for help.

I can’t remember how long we waited before anyone other than the desk clerk spoke to us about the problem; at least 30 minutes, I suspect. The nurse told us she’d see if they had any spare tanks they could swap for ours. I kept thinking, what will we do if they can’t help? Although I knew the answer; we’d have to bring him in and admit him. The hospital, at least, had emergency power, so they could generate oxygen.

After another 20 or 30 minutes, she came back with news: they had no tanks to spare. I wanted to cry. I think this was the point when Dad explained to the nurse what our alternatives were, and that she really did NOT want my fussy, demanding grandfather in their hospital. She said they would try to find an open medical store for us. Keep waiting.

Finally, she came back again. Their chaplain had driven the streets and found us a medical supply store that was open. She gave us directions and we headed back out.

I have never been happier to see an open store. They had no power, but they were doing business anyway. I loved these people.

They swapped our empty tanks for full ones, took my grandfather’s insurance information down, and helped us put the tanks in the car: enough nice, full tanks to get us through another day or two, hopefully until power was restored.

We got back to the hotel, tired but proud and relieved, and carried six big tanks down the hall to my grandfather’s room.

We were met with complaints that he wanted a hot meal: something he didn’t need and we couldn’t get. “Complaints” is actually a bit of an understatement. He insisted that we call the hospital to find out if they would give him a hot meal. We refused. We tried to explain to him what the situation was like out there: no power, emergency power only in the hospital. It took a five-minute argument to convince him to let it go. It was all I could do not to tell him to his face how utterly selfish I thought he was.

The next day, when power was restored, we went to the hotel’s restaurant to pick up dinner and bring it back to the rooms. There were two elderly women also waiting for food. They hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours.

I felt so bad for them, knowing we’d had food to spare — and I wanted to go back and tell my grandfather how lucky he was compared to these women. But I knew it wouldn’t do any good.