January 13, 2019
There are some things that are just basic instinct. For instance, a baby will latch onto anything near his or her mouth and start sucking with all the power of a shop vac. Just ask any new mom whose little one has latched onto the wrong spot! Opening your mouth when being fed, taking a bite, chewing, swallowing. Basic things that will eventually be forgotten should the disease follow its natural progression. But let's not go there right now. Here's what happened:
A couple of days ago, my husband came down with a high fever. Since he's basically non-verbal at this point, trying to determine the cause was an exercise in futility. At this stage, what you go for is comfort. Is the person eating, drinking, resting? Displaying any signs of pain such as facial grimacing, grunting, groaning, or perhaps placing his or her hand on a body part while displaying non-verbal signs of pain?
A nurse was dispatched from hospice to sit with my husband for an 8-hour shift. She (in this case) was charged with encouraging me and ensuring his comfort, monitoring his temperature and blood pressure, communicating with the hospice doctor regarding any needed medications, and taking care of any personal needs that might arise, such as changing his incontinence briefs. Since, on this particular day, he was bedridden due to illness, this involved encouraging him to turn onto his side so the briefs and bed pad could be removed and replaced, then his other side so the pad could be smoothed and the briefs secured. One of the facility's caregivers was called in to help.
Though the bed has railings, my husband was having none of this being rolled onto his side, close to the edge stuff. It was a battle royal as his fear-of-falling instinct took over. The nurse's calming words of reassurance had no effect. He flailed, pushed, and resisted rigidly for all he was worth, and his fear manifested in a remarkable spoken phrase. It surprised all of us: "I'm going to die!" There you have it. Perfect, momentary clarity. Even at this late stage of the disease, it wasn't just the possibility of falling that was giving him the strength to fight. It was the probability of being seriously injured in that fall. It was basic self-preservation. It was the amazing, instinctive, God-given will to live.
The fever has gone, and all is well. This time. I know the day is coming, months or years from now, when the outcome will be different. In the meantime, though, allow me to marvel once again at his strength and resilience and ability to make a come-back. My man is such a warrior!
Showing posts with label comfort care. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comfort care. Show all posts
Sunday, January 13, 2019
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Comfort Care
October 21, 2018
Here's the thing: There's a big difference between accepting something in theory and wrapping your head around something that's become a reality.
You've done all the reading, so you "know" what to expect, what's coming, what's inevitable short of an absolutely miraculous intervention from God. And you think you are prepared, because you know what you've learned. But guess what, boys and girls? You are not prepared. Not at all. And there's no way you possibly can be.
You know that "comfort care" (sounds so much better than "hospice," doesn't it?) is getting closer. You know that, in your head. But when it's actually spoken out loud by the medical team, when your heart races, and your breathing becomes frantic and shallow, and your skin prickles all over, and your stomach sinks, and your throat closes, and you break out in a cold sweat, and your eyes fill with tears, and your body somehow feels disconnected from your mind -- your mind that can't think -- that's when you realize that you can never, ever be prepared.
You wonder if there's anything you could have done differently, if there's anything you overlooked or thought wasn't important, if there's anything -- anything -- that could have made a difference. But there isn't. There really isn't. You did the very best you could do, but it just wasn't enough. It could never have been enough, because there's nothing -- nothing in this world, at this time -- that could have changed this outcome.
It isn't over. Not yet. But it sure feels like defeat. I'm told I should not look at it that way, that I should think of it as just another phase, a progression in this illness. But everything in me resists this way of thinking. Acceptance has not yet made its deposit in my heart.
Even so, I must now make a decision about which hospice provider to enlist. And then the "hospice team" will do an evaluation. If they determine it isn't time yet, I suppose it won't be long before that time comes. I've read it's best to bring hospice into the picture as soon as your loved one "qualifies." That makes it sound a lot like having gone through the preliminaries and now being privileged to run the "big" race. And I guess it is exactly like that, in a way.
Hebrews 12:1
Here's the thing: There's a big difference between accepting something in theory and wrapping your head around something that's become a reality.
You've done all the reading, so you "know" what to expect, what's coming, what's inevitable short of an absolutely miraculous intervention from God. And you think you are prepared, because you know what you've learned. But guess what, boys and girls? You are not prepared. Not at all. And there's no way you possibly can be.
You know that "comfort care" (sounds so much better than "hospice," doesn't it?) is getting closer. You know that, in your head. But when it's actually spoken out loud by the medical team, when your heart races, and your breathing becomes frantic and shallow, and your skin prickles all over, and your stomach sinks, and your throat closes, and you break out in a cold sweat, and your eyes fill with tears, and your body somehow feels disconnected from your mind -- your mind that can't think -- that's when you realize that you can never, ever be prepared.
You wonder if there's anything you could have done differently, if there's anything you overlooked or thought wasn't important, if there's anything -- anything -- that could have made a difference. But there isn't. There really isn't. You did the very best you could do, but it just wasn't enough. It could never have been enough, because there's nothing -- nothing in this world, at this time -- that could have changed this outcome.
It isn't over. Not yet. But it sure feels like defeat. I'm told I should not look at it that way, that I should think of it as just another phase, a progression in this illness. But everything in me resists this way of thinking. Acceptance has not yet made its deposit in my heart.
Even so, I must now make a decision about which hospice provider to enlist. And then the "hospice team" will do an evaluation. If they determine it isn't time yet, I suppose it won't be long before that time comes. I've read it's best to bring hospice into the picture as soon as your loved one "qualifies." That makes it sound a lot like having gone through the preliminaries and now being privileged to run the "big" race. And I guess it is exactly like that, in a way.
Hebrews 12:1
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