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.
Showing posts with label strictures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strictures. Show all posts
Thursday, July 2, 2020
Tuesday, June 9, 2020
The Comeback Kid
Weird things are happening with my husband's body now that he's been completely bedridden for a while. His legs and feet are stiff. He can bend his knees, but not on request. He can't really use his hands much, and the fingers of his right hand are swollen, tight together, curled under, and unable to be straightened without causing him obvious pain in spite of the routine administering of pain medication. His hands and forearms, uncovered, are sweaty and hot. Meanwhile, his feet, covered with a sheet and light blanket, are ice cold.
The hospital bed is adjusted to just the right angles so his legs and head are elevated. He is turned regularly and ever so carefully to avoid bed sores. Pillows are placed here and there to relieve pressure between his bony knees, under his legs, along his side. He is changed regularly so he will be clean and dry and as comfortable as possible. The hospital gowns I purchased for him are being put to good use.
In spite of the attentive care he is receiving, a foul-smelling fungal infection has developed between the fingers and on the palm of his strictured right hand. Medicinal powders are being applied religiously to clear that up, and a dry washcloth is rolled up and delicately inserted in the curve of his fingers and palm to absorb moisture. He neither holds it nor releases it. It's just there, unless he pulls at it with his left hand. He sometimes raises his left arm as if reaching for something, but not his right arm.
The hospice nurse visits more regularly, twice a week instead of once. But, increasingly, the on-call nurse is summoned to the facility to address something or other that has popped up. He's been eating most of his meals for the past couple of days, and drinking. He was awake for a while today. When his eyes turned in my direction, it was like he wasn't seeing me except once or twice, when he seemed to be wondering who I was.
Seeing him like this daily is very difficult physically and emotionally. The nurse gave me a flyer yesterday. It's about what to expect as the end of life approaches. Nobody is encouraging me to think this final process will be lengthy, but it's possible. Anything is possible. But that doesn't mean it's likely. My consolation is that my husband is more than likely unaware. He is slumbering, being looked after, and showered with love. And when this is over, he will be healed and whole and in the presence of the Lord. Soon, possibly. But not yet. He's still the Comeback Kid.
The hospital bed is adjusted to just the right angles so his legs and head are elevated. He is turned regularly and ever so carefully to avoid bed sores. Pillows are placed here and there to relieve pressure between his bony knees, under his legs, along his side. He is changed regularly so he will be clean and dry and as comfortable as possible. The hospital gowns I purchased for him are being put to good use.
In spite of the attentive care he is receiving, a foul-smelling fungal infection has developed between the fingers and on the palm of his strictured right hand. Medicinal powders are being applied religiously to clear that up, and a dry washcloth is rolled up and delicately inserted in the curve of his fingers and palm to absorb moisture. He neither holds it nor releases it. It's just there, unless he pulls at it with his left hand. He sometimes raises his left arm as if reaching for something, but not his right arm.
The hospice nurse visits more regularly, twice a week instead of once. But, increasingly, the on-call nurse is summoned to the facility to address something or other that has popped up. He's been eating most of his meals for the past couple of days, and drinking. He was awake for a while today. When his eyes turned in my direction, it was like he wasn't seeing me except once or twice, when he seemed to be wondering who I was.
Seeing him like this daily is very difficult physically and emotionally. The nurse gave me a flyer yesterday. It's about what to expect as the end of life approaches. Nobody is encouraging me to think this final process will be lengthy, but it's possible. Anything is possible. But that doesn't mean it's likely. My consolation is that my husband is more than likely unaware. He is slumbering, being looked after, and showered with love. And when this is over, he will be healed and whole and in the presence of the Lord. Soon, possibly. But not yet. He's still the Comeback Kid.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)