Sorry, Not Sorry

July 1, 2020

About a month ago, I ordered a bunch of hospital gowns for my husband. He was in bed all the time, t-shirts bunched up under his arms and up his back, and it seemed logical to get him something practical to wear in a hospital bed. So I did. Residents who are still up and about are encouraged to wear "regular clothing," but I didn't see the point in making him more uncomfortable than he already was. His clothes were hanging in the closet and hadn't been touched since the gowns arrived.

His right hand, in various degrees of swollenness since the end of April (when it was bright purple for no explicable reason), has been very painful and curled up since the fungal infection I mentioned at the beginning of June. Moving it at all, even to gently insert a rolled-up washcloth to absorb the moisture, causes him to wince and moan, and moving his arm hurts him even more.

Today, inexpicably, he was wearing a pull-over shirt when I arrived. There must have been a new staff member on duty who didn't understand the situation. Knowing the pain it causes him when I gently slide the half-sleeve of the hospital gown up his arm, I could only imagine the agony of having his arm pulled up to get that shirt on. I was appalled and paled at the thought.

I checked his closet, and there were half a dozen hospital gowns in there, waiting to be used. I went to the first available caregiver and asked why my husband wasn't wearing one of them. She had just come on duty and was horrified. She and another caregiver did what they could to carefully remove the shirt, but my husband let out a loud wail. He was in excruciating pain, the look of anguish on his face exactly what you might expect to see on a victim of torture.

Oh, dear reader. I couldn't bear it. My heart broke into a million jagged pieces, and I thought I might faint. Instead, I cried in front of everybody. Sorry, not sorry. I never expected that the end stage of this horrible, vicious disease would result in this level of pain in spite of medication.

Immediately after the carers left the room, I marched to his closet and removed his clothing, hangers and all, and packed everything up in his spare laundry basket to take home. If he needs it, I'll be happy to take it back. But, in the meantime, there's no way I'm letting that happen to him again. Not if I can help it.

No, it did not occur to me to take his clothes home before. Yes, I talked to hospice regarding his pain management. And, yes, I did march straight to the office to chat with the facility manager. And I cried again. Sorry, not sorry.