The Decline Continues
2019-03-23
The day after I wrote last, the loneliness that was weighing on me lifted. I began to appreciate all the support that surrounds me. Friends from church have come and sat with Mom, and a number of people in my life are willing to fly here immediately if needed. Mom’s sister and her husband are due to come next week. Everyone’s prayers and kind thoughts are ever present.
Mom was so restless the first few days in the ER that they assigned her a sitter. Around Sunday she calmed down and refused to eat or drink anything. She stopped acknowledging people and besides a wonderful smile on Sunday afternoon I haven’t felt like she knows me. She has been sleeping or staring at the television or ceiling for a few days now.
She has had a tube inserted in her neck going directly to her aorta so that the IV’s have a better way in. Her poor arms couldn’t take the pressure on her veins anymore. Now she has a tube for the IV nutrition as well as a tube for fluids and medications. Today they gave her a blood transfusion and started an anti-seizure medication, and tonight she smiled halfway when I walked into her room. It’s moments like that which draw me to her side.
Thursday night I vegged out in front of the TV while Sophia served up the casserole I had prepared. She brought me dinner in the recliner and sent me to bed early. Friday morning while Mom was in dialysis, I cleaned the house and that afternoon while a friend sat at her bedside, I took the kids to a park. The sunshine was good for us. Last night, I read a book at Mom’s bedside. I jumped up when she opened her eyes or moved around. She needed a pillow tucked between her legs and the bed rail. I wiped some spit from her lips which is a side effect of her medication. I kissed her forehead and smoothed the hair around her face. I think some people would read psalms or pray with her. Just being is enough for me. It’s what we have often done in hospital rooms since Mom moved in fourteen years ago.
All the tests results are compete and show nothing wrong. The doctor is contemplating another MRI with contrast that could be dangerous. He will consult with the kidney doctor before approaching me for consent, but I’m not convinced there is anything to be found. The hospital staff are not as optimistic as before. They make occasional references to “what comes next” but keep it vague. I’m going to meet with a representative from a hospice company today so that someone can tell me what “what comes next” might look like. I talked to the nursing home that the hospital was recommending last week, and they said that Medicare doesn’t pay for long term care for people who aren’t recovering. That home didn’t have a place for people who aren’t eating, drinking or responding.
This morning when I went to see Mom she wasn’t responding. The look on her face was the unhappy, uncomfortable side of blank. The nurses had taken off the warm blanket that she has had for the past few days. I pulled out the lighter blanket that I had brought for myself when the room is cold and put it over her. It was Mom’s Titanic blanket with the word “unsinkable” written in bold white letters. I almost took it off because it seemed like a bad metaphor, but it was her favorite blanket. It’s the little pleasures that make life good.
2019-03-23
The day after I wrote last, the loneliness that was weighing on me lifted. I began to appreciate all the support that surrounds me. Friends from church have come and sat with Mom, and a number of people in my life are willing to fly here immediately if needed. Mom’s sister and her husband are due to come next week. Everyone’s prayers and kind thoughts are ever present.
Mom was so restless the first few days in the ER that they assigned her a sitter. Around Sunday she calmed down and refused to eat or drink anything. She stopped acknowledging people and besides a wonderful smile on Sunday afternoon I haven’t felt like she knows me. She has been sleeping or staring at the television or ceiling for a few days now.
She has had a tube inserted in her neck going directly to her aorta so that the IV’s have a better way in. Her poor arms couldn’t take the pressure on her veins anymore. Now she has a tube for the IV nutrition as well as a tube for fluids and medications. Today they gave her a blood transfusion and started an anti-seizure medication, and tonight she smiled halfway when I walked into her room. It’s moments like that which draw me to her side.
Thursday night I vegged out in front of the TV while Sophia served up the casserole I had prepared. She brought me dinner in the recliner and sent me to bed early. Friday morning while Mom was in dialysis, I cleaned the house and that afternoon while a friend sat at her bedside, I took the kids to a park. The sunshine was good for us. Last night, I read a book at Mom’s bedside. I jumped up when she opened her eyes or moved around. She needed a pillow tucked between her legs and the bed rail. I wiped some spit from her lips which is a side effect of her medication. I kissed her forehead and smoothed the hair around her face. I think some people would read psalms or pray with her. Just being is enough for me. It’s what we have often done in hospital rooms since Mom moved in fourteen years ago.
All the tests results are compete and show nothing wrong. The doctor is contemplating another MRI with contrast that could be dangerous. He will consult with the kidney doctor before approaching me for consent, but I’m not convinced there is anything to be found. The hospital staff are not as optimistic as before. They make occasional references to “what comes next” but keep it vague. I’m going to meet with a representative from a hospice company today so that someone can tell me what “what comes next” might look like. I talked to the nursing home that the hospital was recommending last week, and they said that Medicare doesn’t pay for long term care for people who aren’t recovering. That home didn’t have a place for people who aren’t eating, drinking or responding.
This morning when I went to see Mom she wasn’t responding. The look on her face was the unhappy, uncomfortable side of blank. The nurses had taken off the warm blanket that she has had for the past few days. I pulled out the lighter blanket that I had brought for myself when the room is cold and put it over her. It was Mom’s Titanic blanket with the word “unsinkable” written in bold white letters. I almost took it off because it seemed like a bad metaphor, but it was her favorite blanket. It’s the little pleasures that make life good.