Thanks tru. I hope it goes (went?) well for you and your Grandmother. As for the the trust thing CW... I don't know...
I would've responded sooner, but I've been busy; and this computer keeps acting up. I thought it might have something to do with this place. It was an ordeal nearly every time I turned it on, and I didn't have time to fugwiddit. I lost what I had written - twice! So I wrote it again, and again... It had to evolve. I almost blew it off, but I figured this might be helpful to describe what I went through, and that wouldn't be polite.
These last few years a sad trend has unfolded in my life: So many friends and relatives have slowly shrank and faded away. Most of them were old, but others weren't. Some died quick. Cancer has been the primary culprit. My wife's sister died of the ovarian variety. Diabetes, infections, blood clots, strokes, heart attacks and a couple of embolisms round out a lenghty list. Oh yeah! My good friend was killed in a head-on collision; and a nephew in my wife's family shot himself upon returning from Iraq. Even my dog died this year. I have some very sad stories, and more in the making... Let's face it, death is part of life. But there have been so many, I'm beginning to see the
signs. .
Some people are just going through the motions. They've given up. They're defeated. They're walking around, but they're already dead. I think that describes most of the people on the planet. Have you ever seen that old
Twilight Zone with the soldier who saw death in the faces of his comrades who weren't going to make it. That's the way I was beginning to feel; except that when I look in the mirror, I see life everlasting - but no one left to enjoy it with. Ouch!
That guy who shot himself, I don't know what happened to him (in Iraq), but he was dead the day I met him (at a wedding a few years later). I felt sorry for his mother.
That car wreck was a shock. She was an angel. I thought she had a long way to go; but driving on the highway in the middle of the day, she hit a drunk driver who was going the wrong way. He lived, she didn't. That was 5 years ago. but I just found out about it. She was a great friend and I always thought I would see her again; but she moved to Wyoming and, lo and behold, next thing I know, it had been a few years. Geez, I was going to call her a dozen times, but I didn't.
Mom was getting old, but she was still driving and lived in her big house all alone. Her last husband died 15 years ago. She met a "boyfriend", and they travelled together and kept each other company for quite a few years. My family and I went to his eightieth birthday party; then we went to his funeral. I feel lucky that Mom never even got in a wreck, or fell down the stairs and broke her neck. This was a very real concern, as you will see.
For many, many years, once or twice (or three times) a week, I was compelled to drive an hour (or an hour and a half, depending on traffic) to spend the day with her. Far too often I'd have to spent the night. (Ugh!) She would have loved it if I just moved in.
I'd do some chores, the two of us would run some errands, and then she'd invariably ask, "Where do you want to eat?" Cooking at her home was out of the question, so we'd always go out to a restaurant. There isn't much choice where she lived, but I'd eat at one of them; and she'd order a meal, take a few little bites, save the rest - and never eat it. Her refrigerator was full of "foxfood.", she explained, "the stinkier it is, the better they like it." She'd set some out in her driveway after dark "so the birds don't get it".
Returning to her house from the restaurant, Mom would invariably want to play gin rummy for a penny a point; and she'd insist on having a glass of wine. Her rule was she "didn't drink alone". I thought it was a pretty good rule actually, so I'd oblige her and have a beer so she didn't have to. Hey! The Grand Dame was very good at cards and she was highly entertaining. (Mom loved to play bridge. She told a great story about playing against the famous Goren in a bridge tournament in olde Miami. He got so mad he threw his cards accross the table. Twice! She had so many stories. She knew everyone and had been all over the world.) Anyway, my brother and I split time on this routine for a number of years; except he wouldn't play cards, so he probably got more done around her house. Her friends would also help by stopping by, or taking her places so she wouldn't be all alone. She was the Queen of Chaos. (I think that's a game; or a genetic disorder that runs in the family.) She had two grown men (her sons) bending over backward so she could stay in her house.
I tried to talk her into assisted living. She would often visit her friends who lived there. In fact, that's where her boyfriend lived. I thought she would enjoy being there with them. She could afford it, but ultimately insisted on staying in her house. She didn't ask, she just expected that we would continue what we had been doing, and we did!. Were we enabling a bad decision? It was a constant debate. I don't know if I would do it again. (Oooh maybe, I guess so.)
Every now and then, I'd get there and she'd have a nasty bruise. I'd ask her what happened and she'd tell me exactly how she had stumbled into a table, or a dresser, or a door... Once, she tripped and knocked herself out; waking up on her front porch freezing in the middle of the night. No big deal! Just a few years before, she was with her boyfriend and tripped and tumbled down thirty-nine steps at some fancy New York theatre: Knocked herself out; broke a tooth and her wrist. More lately, as I parked the car, she rushed in to get a prescription, tripped again and broke her shoulder. We spent the rest of the day at the hospital, and I had to spend the night for a week. (3 glasses every night!) Then, one night a short time ago, when I called at ten in the evening, she casually asked if I could come over. "Why?", I asked. She said she had fallen on the floor next to her bed and couldn't get up.
Of course, my brother and I both raced over there and got her to the bathroom and into her bed, and then I spent the night. The next day I took her to the emergency room. It was Friday and that's where her doctor told me to take her. She seemed really spacy so I thought she had suffered a stroke, but it was a bladder infection. They treated her with an IV of anti-biotics and, sure enough, her mental condition noticeably improved. We were there all day and they insisted that she spend the night.
But, Mother insisted that she didn't. I wanted her to stay. Their position was if she wouldn't stay, they were going to relinquish themselves of any responsibility. They don't want to get sued. They made her sign a release and and I drove her home and spent the night again. In the future, if a similiar situation were to arise, perhaps a phone call to her physician would be more hippocratic than just letting her slip through the cracks.
Her personal doctor saw her the following Tuesday. He weighed her, took her blood pressure, and basically went through the motions like it was her routine check-up. He didn't have the hospital records until we were ready to leave. He said he talked to somebody on the phone, but didn't prescribe anything for the bladder infection which the hospital had diagnosed. If my mother's doctor had spent as much insurance money on physical therapy as he did on prescriptions, she might be playing golf this year. But no antibiotics. Not until it was too late.
Mom's mistake, if it was one, was in refusing to return to the emergency room. Shit! I could've ordered Cipro over the Internet (just thought of that) or insisted that an ambulance come take her. We talked about that, but she reiterated what she had said before, "I'd die in that hospital. I'd rather die at home". Maybe that's exactly what she meant. She was comfortable in her bed. In the hospital, she would've been scared. She got what she wanted. She always did. "She was crazy like a fox.", said one of her friends.
Ce***ra Healthcare - a corporation, is all about running a tab - when it's covered! They couldn't make any money if she wouldn't stay. Poking and prodding, dispensing prescriptions like candy, they will prolong a patients illness, or keeping a poor soul alive just to run up the bill. By the way, Hospice care was 100% covered by Medicare. If you know someone who's knows they're dying and they don't want to suffer a lot pain, tell them to execute a Do Not Resusitate Order, and a Medical Power of Attorney while they still can. Then get in touch with the hospice people. They were great.
http://www.thedenverhospice.org/Pages/default.aspx .
I can't tell you how many times Mom told me that she was going to die over the years. I used to joke that she was like Fred Sanford...
"I'm dying!" Like I said above, she'd had cancer three times, and I didn't know what to expect. Ten years ago, she bought me a suit that I could "wear to her funeral." So many times, I'd see her sleeping and wonder if she had passed away. (What the fuck man, She put me through
this. Taking care of her for those last two weeks was the most excruciating experience I have ever been through, but it was a priviledge to do it. My mother was so brave. "Old age ain't for sissies.", she used to say. Well, neither is dying, but she managed to stay calm. When the going got tough, the hospice people had me give her "liquid morphine", and some other "anti-anxiety medication", which relaxed her quite a bit. (No I didn't try any.) My cousin, my brother and his girlfriend were also in the house. The nurses were coming and going; as did the pastor who gave her "Last Rites" according to her religion. My wife and son drove out, said their goodbyes, and had to leave. She and a couple of Mom's friends later confided in me that they had summoned their dead love ones to come help her to find her way. Her friends were calling, and I had to break the news. I became hyper-aware, transcending myself to do everything that had to be done; and do it right. (Now I'm a sluggard again.)
Laboring to take a shallow breath about every 5 seconds, my mother was so sensitive that she'd grimace if we barely touched her. Her lips were dry and her mouth was wide open. She slept on this gigantic mattress that was set into a even larger old waterbed frame, and we had to climb up on each side of her give her a drink of water; lifing her gently by a pillow beneath her shoulders - so it wouldn't spill all over her face. She'd reach up and grab the bottle with her bony fingers as we held onto it and tilt it toward her lips. She'd barely take a sip, then collapse back onto her pillow. She deteriorated to the point that she was barely conscious. When she could no longer swallow, the hospice nurse suggested we use the dropper to wet her lips. The last time I did this, her teeth chattered on the plastic, and she stopped breathing.
I knew she was gone. Her body was empty, but I didn't know if she was dead. I half expected for her to open those pretty blues eyes and look at me, smile of course, and then want to play cards... It took me a while to fathom that my mother had drawn her last breath. I sat down and watched her for about fifteen minutes. I got to tell you though: As sad as it was, I felt tremendous relief.
Mom brought me into this world, and I was there to help her to the next. I know that meant a lot to her because, what the hell, I was one of her favorite people. I was touched that so many of her vast network of friends informed me how great she was and how much they were going to miss her. I don't think they're kidding?! There's a big empty space where she used to be.
I've been stunned by getting hit from so many directions. Today the wind is howling, and it seems that my world could turn to dust if I let it. I'm still in a fog, but the air is electric. I'm think
I'm getting better.
Not too long ago, my wife told me she spoke to her sister in a lucid dream. "There's life after death", she said, ".... but it's different..."
Good luck!
by blanc » Tue May 03, 2011 4:49 am 
