As I sat in the evening and contemplated
the decision I made earlier to put Gram on hospice, I thought about
all of the wonderful memories. For the past couple of weeks, my life with Gram
had been passing before me. Perhaps it was a premonition for what was now
happening. At random times, images of wonderful memories and moments would pop
into my head. They were special things we did together and things she did for
me. There were memories of West View Park, Kennywood Park, Christmases,
Thanksgivings, visits to Emlenton, saving me from thunderstorms and fireworks,
comforting me during nightmares, high school graduation, college graduations,
family day at Gateway Rehab, and many others.
Gram was my rock, my guide, my
inspiration, and my friend. She was the first person I wanted to tell when good
or bad things happened in my life. Whether it was a new job, new car, buying my
house, a new relationship, ending a relationship, or getting sober, I couldn’t
wait to tell her.
These memories made me feel so grateful now, but at the same time, terrified. Even though I hadn’t been able to share things with her over the last several years the way I had before, I still went to her. I still got comfort and strength from her. And I had never been able to imagine my life without her. Now I knew I had to.
These memories made me feel so grateful now, but at the same time, terrified. Even though I hadn’t been able to share things with her over the last several years the way I had before, I still went to her. I still got comfort and strength from her. And I had never been able to imagine my life without her. Now I knew I had to.
Where
would I be without her? How would I see myself had it not been for her? Would I
know how to really care for and love another person? What type of person would
I be? These questions churned in my head as I thought about losing her.
Then suddenly I flashed back to the day I moved her out of Elmcroft Senior
Care.
Leaving Elmcroft was another one of
those turning points in Gram’s journey where there was no turning back. Gram
had been taken to the emergency room because of a urinary tract infection
coupled with a C-diff infection. She was very sick and almost died in the ICU,
but was subsequently moved to ManorCare. We were convinced she was placed there
to die. Even if she survived, Elmcroft wouldn’t take her back with a C-diff
infection unless she could test negative 3 consecutive times. That was
unlikely. And the hospital social worker was helping find skilled nursing care if we
needed it. I had to move her out.
She didn’t have much there, but it took
me hours that day to move her out of that room. My sobbing continually interrupted
the packing and emptying process and I’d find myself alone, sitting on the bed
or in the chair, paralyzed in my own emotions. It was a slow, difficult process.
But now, when Dr. Woodburn’s physician’s
assistant called me after seeing Gram earlier and suggested hospice, she said, “She’ll
get the extra help that she needs at mealtime. Maybe she’ll eat better.” “Ok,”
I agreed.
Although a momentary surge of hope
went through me, I didn’t have a good feeling this time. Even though Gram had
been on hospice twice before and discharged, this time felt different. She was only
105 pounds. She lost 2 pounds in just the last week and 12 since late July. My milkshake routine didn't seem to be working. Yes, I hoped hospice would get her additional attention at mealtime and just maybe
she’d start eating again, but I didn’t think she was going to recover for the
long term. I most certainly, though, didn’t think she’d be gone inside a week
either.
Eating had become such an issue lately
with Gram. She had actually become angry about it. That’s also why this time
was different. “I don’t want it,” She’d yell when I tried to feed her. She even
began throwing food at me, like the french fries she flung at me when I tried
to put them in her mouth. Perhaps she
made her decision then. Perhaps that was her way of saying, “I’m done.” We
always said Gram would decide when it was her time. In hindsight, I think she
had.
The physician’s assistant contacted
Heartland Hospice. It wasn’t long before
the hospice liaison contacted me and we planned to meet the next day at 1:00 pm
in Gram’s room at ManorCare to sign the papers. I was sad. At that point, I
thought the worst part of going on hospice was taking her off blood thinners
and knowing that a clot could form, travel to her lungs or brain, and kill her.
Later, I would find out it really wasn’t a big deal and eliminating the blood
thinners was necessary.
When I visited Gram the night
before, she wouldn’t even drink the milkshake. She was somewhat talkative, but
her voice was soft and strained. She was weak, I could tell. She made mostly
random sounds, but at one point said, “That Sandy is a good boy.” (Sandy was
Jude’s old dog). Where did that come from?
I thought, as she continued on with the random sounds. Later, right before I left, she managed to
clearly speak the words, “I have to get the hell outta here.”
But on this night, she lay in her bed,
asleep and peaceful. She was breathing so lightly, it was if she was already dead, except her
heart was beating.
Beautifully written. Your life and Gram's life have a special purpose.
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