Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Fear and Loathing
Sometimes, what you think is the right thing to do, or else the only thing you are capable of doing, makes you hate yourself.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
The Dying Room
She was in her 95th year and, against her wishes, found herself in the hospital, its saving grace, in her eyes, was that it was a Catholic hospital. The cardiologist on call said, based on their testing, that she would be a candidate for a pacemaker, for her irregular heartbeat. But what about her kidney function was the other concern. He quickly responded that would indeed be a consideration, but not in his area. So the pacemaker was not installed.
I think it was a Tuesday she was convinced to go to the hospital, which she reluctantly agreed to, with the condition she'd be checked out and could be home by Friday.
Her condition did not improve after her diagnoses, such as they were. She'd been on an IV, one which included a morphine drip, though she had not complained of pain, only extreme weakness. I remember a nurse asking her what level of pain, and though she answered in the negative, the nurse administered more morphine. This was over 20 years ago, and we were relatively naive about the workings of hospitals, had no reason to question their treatment.
That became all too clear when, on the third day, they told us they would be moving her from the room in the ward she'd been in to another, this one in a rather secluded area, by the door. So she wouldn't be disturbed, they said.
There were 3 of us family members with her at the time of the move, and the room was small, so we had to make way for their bringing her into the new room. Two people stepped out into the hallway, but I was near the bathroom so I went in there to make way, apparently unnoticed. There were 2 staff members arranging her transfer from the transport bed to her new bed, which was near the wall and in front of the bathroom where I was waiting. The others were in the hall. The nurses, or I suppose aides, wheeled her over to the bed and just dumped her into the new bed, like a sack of vegetables, or trash. She, who was never one to complain, moaned at the shock and pain. I stepped out of the bathroom, horrified, and told them so. Their response was that the room was so small they had no choice.
So now she's in this small room, near the doorway, and the morphine drip has been increased. She is lucid, but weak. She still has some appetite, says she wants to eat but can't think of any food that would be agreeable, and requests a peanut butter sandwich from home. Her niece brushes out her long thick hair and pins it up for her. She hopes her nephew will give her dog a promised bath. I stay with her that night, on a sleeping bag brought from home. She has a tube in her nose, to help her breathe, she's told. The nurse tells me to call them if anything happens, and not to touch anything. I suddenly recall that when we first arrived, I had seen a stretcher with a covered figure being carried out of this very room. Clarification sets in: there is a reason for the location of this room, away from the others and near the doorway. The dying room.
Her breathing comes to an end that very night. I dutifully notify the nurses' station, after I removed the tube from her nose. It was Friday, and she was leaving the hospital.
I think it was a Tuesday she was convinced to go to the hospital, which she reluctantly agreed to, with the condition she'd be checked out and could be home by Friday.
Her condition did not improve after her diagnoses, such as they were. She'd been on an IV, one which included a morphine drip, though she had not complained of pain, only extreme weakness. I remember a nurse asking her what level of pain, and though she answered in the negative, the nurse administered more morphine. This was over 20 years ago, and we were relatively naive about the workings of hospitals, had no reason to question their treatment.
That became all too clear when, on the third day, they told us they would be moving her from the room in the ward she'd been in to another, this one in a rather secluded area, by the door. So she wouldn't be disturbed, they said.
There were 3 of us family members with her at the time of the move, and the room was small, so we had to make way for their bringing her into the new room. Two people stepped out into the hallway, but I was near the bathroom so I went in there to make way, apparently unnoticed. There were 2 staff members arranging her transfer from the transport bed to her new bed, which was near the wall and in front of the bathroom where I was waiting. The others were in the hall. The nurses, or I suppose aides, wheeled her over to the bed and just dumped her into the new bed, like a sack of vegetables, or trash. She, who was never one to complain, moaned at the shock and pain. I stepped out of the bathroom, horrified, and told them so. Their response was that the room was so small they had no choice.
So now she's in this small room, near the doorway, and the morphine drip has been increased. She is lucid, but weak. She still has some appetite, says she wants to eat but can't think of any food that would be agreeable, and requests a peanut butter sandwich from home. Her niece brushes out her long thick hair and pins it up for her. She hopes her nephew will give her dog a promised bath. I stay with her that night, on a sleeping bag brought from home. She has a tube in her nose, to help her breathe, she's told. The nurse tells me to call them if anything happens, and not to touch anything. I suddenly recall that when we first arrived, I had seen a stretcher with a covered figure being carried out of this very room. Clarification sets in: there is a reason for the location of this room, away from the others and near the doorway. The dying room.
Her breathing comes to an end that very night. I dutifully notify the nurses' station, after I removed the tube from her nose. It was Friday, and she was leaving the hospital.
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