an awful hospice experience
Cornpone
doctor. I lived 1,800 miles away, and a month after finding out
about his dire illness, there was still no diagnosis. I was hearing
unusual things from my mother and brothers. About how the medical
professionals were baffled, and had never seen anything like it.
One ominus and unexplained feature of his illness was that he bled
from his pores, and his blood would not coagulate, or would only
coagulate very slowly. Creating fountain like scabs. I was told
they could find nothing wrong with any major organ. I never knew
how, or at least didn't remember, how they finally arrived at the
conclusion that he had multiple myaloma.
Two weeks before his death he was put into a hospice. I visited him
every day. The hospice decided to accomodate my wish not to walk
through the hospice to get to his apartment, and instead allowed me
to enter it from the outside patio.
On one un-announced visit, and upon my entering by this method at a
time at which I had not normally shown up, there were a female
hospice aide on each side of his bed, bent over, both whispering into
each of his ears. These were not nurses, but volunteers.
My dad was motionless and seemingly asleep, but he instantly sat up
without the aide of even his own arms. As if doing a quick sit up.
Strangly enough, that reminded me of a scene from the Exorcist movie.
At the end of the sit up stroke, his eyes opened and were as wide
with fear as any I'd ever seen.
At the same time, he said, "[my name], we have to get out of here,
they are trying to kill us!" Then immediately his eyes closed, and
he completed the "sit up," by lying back down.
When I'd opened the door, the volunteers were startled and looked up
at me. After dad lay back down, they hung their heads and clasped
their hands in front of them, and without saying a word, left the room.
Having years earlier experienced a deeply meaningful spiritual
journey myself, I was not startled at this occurance. My mind seemed
already to have an explanation, but I resisted the notion that these
women were members of some kind of death cult.
I went to dad, and I asked him what he had heard. What the women were
telling him, and I got no answer. I planned later to ask the
administration at the hospice about what had happened here and
completely forgot to do that until after dad passed and I had
returned home. I asked in a letter. Describing this incident
exactly as I have done here. I was told the aides had no memory of
the incident.
There was one other unusual incident that I've not communicated
outside the family. When dad died, I, another brother, and my mother
were there. The administration of the hospice wanted to know how dad
should be dressed for his funeral. This was something I'd never
thought of before, and rather than have a stranger dress him, I
decided I should do it myself. They handed me a diaper, and I got
out his bib overalls and a flannel shirt. When I'd finished, and
left his room, the administrator asked me if I minded whether they
took a picture of him for their guestbook! I don't know why my
mother complied, I was completely astounded and speechless. I later
went back and asked for the poloroid, already glued into the
guestbook, deciding myself this would not occur. It seemed to me
like some sort of odd trophy for them.
abby
deaths are easy. But this is another story altogether. As a hospice
volunteer, I think it's terribly important to meet the needs of the
family and the patient, which means not imposing anything upon them.
Though I say this with regard to the hospice volunteers you wrote
about, but with this in mind, and as a branch of it, could you respect
your mother's decision to allow your father's picture to be taken?
Strange as it may seem. And much as it may seem to be in really,
really poor taste.
I hope this experience hasn't completely turned you off to hospice care
forever. I'm no expert, but I want to state as a fact that hospice
care offers an opportunity to all involved for something that feels
magical but is utterly ordinary- the ability to let go elegantly.
all good things,
Abby