Hospice = What, Exactly
I was eager for the visiting nurse to get here yesterday given Mom still isn't eating solids because her throat is very sore.
Seems that wasn't the only thing very sore.
Mom told me her legs and feet were "getting better," a term I should know by now means, "Not so much," but I guess I'm a slow learner.
When the nurse pulled back her covers and took off her socks (which turned out to be wet with blood), I about passed out. Her legs were so swollen they had started to crack open and her feet looked like two huge blocks with tiny little nubs sticking out the ends.
I think it even freaked the nurse out too, who immediately picked up her cell, mumbling something about calling her supervisor.
When the phone was passed to me, I told her I didn't know how to take care of such wounds and that this was not the only thing that has not gotten better since her release from the nursing home.
When the nurse hung up the phone and told Mom she had to go back to the hospital, she shook her head and in the whisper (the only voice she's had since Sunday), said, "No," and used her hand to emphasize her point.
I told her it wasn't the nursing home.
And then she really upset me by pointing at me and whispering,
"She doesn't want me here."
The nurse, flustered by Mom's stubborness and my crying, tried to assure me I had done everything I could.
She then made a call and the next word I heard was HOSPICE. Telling Mom they could come to care for her and she didn't have to go back to the hospital.
Before I knew it, hospice was calling me saying they would be here at 4 to "assess your situation."
In the meantime, I had calmed myself enough to leave a message for the doctor.
When hospice came, she told me exactly what I already knew. Their services provide for people who had given up. Mom would no longer be admitted to the hospital for her breathing problems or anything other than another major problem.
Mom still didn't understand. Her lack of a voice and her failing hearing doesn't help, but I finally got her to understand what this all meant.
She wrote on a pad: "Hospital. I will go if you think best, but no #2. Please don't send me there."
#2 is the nursing home.
I told her hospice is a great service for people who no longer wanted to fight or when there was nothing left to do.
She wrote: "Didn't understand. There's more we can do. Hospital."
The doctor cemented my position. "When they called me I couldn't understand why you wanted hospice at this point, but told them 'if that's what they want, go ahead." He explained Mom's refusal to go back to the hospital and the fact she couldn't communicate well started the snowball that turned into the nightmare.
So when the ambulance comes this morning to take her back to the hospital, I will at least know that she still wants to fight and the doctor still thinks there's a chance she can get better again.
And I'll be looking for someplace other than #2 when the government once again insists she's well enough to be released because this time, I know from experience that if she can get better, she won't be able to do it in #2.
Seems that wasn't the only thing very sore.
Mom told me her legs and feet were "getting better," a term I should know by now means, "Not so much," but I guess I'm a slow learner.
When the nurse pulled back her covers and took off her socks (which turned out to be wet with blood), I about passed out. Her legs were so swollen they had started to crack open and her feet looked like two huge blocks with tiny little nubs sticking out the ends.
I think it even freaked the nurse out too, who immediately picked up her cell, mumbling something about calling her supervisor.
When the phone was passed to me, I told her I didn't know how to take care of such wounds and that this was not the only thing that has not gotten better since her release from the nursing home.
When the nurse hung up the phone and told Mom she had to go back to the hospital, she shook her head and in the whisper (the only voice she's had since Sunday), said, "No," and used her hand to emphasize her point.
I told her it wasn't the nursing home.
And then she really upset me by pointing at me and whispering,
"She doesn't want me here."
The nurse, flustered by Mom's stubborness and my crying, tried to assure me I had done everything I could.
She then made a call and the next word I heard was HOSPICE. Telling Mom they could come to care for her and she didn't have to go back to the hospital.
Before I knew it, hospice was calling me saying they would be here at 4 to "assess your situation."
In the meantime, I had calmed myself enough to leave a message for the doctor.
When hospice came, she told me exactly what I already knew. Their services provide for people who had given up. Mom would no longer be admitted to the hospital for her breathing problems or anything other than another major problem.
Mom still didn't understand. Her lack of a voice and her failing hearing doesn't help, but I finally got her to understand what this all meant.
She wrote on a pad: "Hospital. I will go if you think best, but no #2. Please don't send me there."
#2 is the nursing home.
I told her hospice is a great service for people who no longer wanted to fight or when there was nothing left to do.
She wrote: "Didn't understand. There's more we can do. Hospital."
The doctor cemented my position. "When they called me I couldn't understand why you wanted hospice at this point, but told them 'if that's what they want, go ahead." He explained Mom's refusal to go back to the hospital and the fact she couldn't communicate well started the snowball that turned into the nightmare.
So when the ambulance comes this morning to take her back to the hospital, I will at least know that she still wants to fight and the doctor still thinks there's a chance she can get better again.
And I'll be looking for someplace other than #2 when the government once again insists she's well enough to be released because this time, I know from experience that if she can get better, she won't be able to do it in #2.
posted by Kerri Fivecoat-Campbell at 4:05 AM
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