A Gentle Death: Part 1 - Our first week
By Barbara O'Neil Ross
Part 1: Our first week with hospice
“You know this is the beginning of the end,” John's lung specialist tells me over the phone when I ask if he will authorize hospice care. He agrees to sign the required papers predicting a life expectancy of less than six months - but seems reluctant.
Awake most of the night, I agonize over the decision.
Next morning I phone the primary care physician, an old friend of my husband. His response to hospice - “I'm so relieved to hear this. I was afraid you didn't realize how serious his condition is.”
A few days later a starchy Scottish woman arrives with a mountain of forms. She pulls her chair up to John's bed, her kind eyes looking directly into his, and says, “You know, love, your lung disease isn't going to improve.” Her warmth and honesty put us at ease.
Two days later the hospice team hurtles into action. Peter, the furniture mover, puffs up our stairs carting a hospital bed, furniture is rearranged. A bed-table, shower chair, wheelchair, and commode appear. Caroline, an energetic blond brown-eyed nurse, makes her first call and instructs me in the use of morphine - “You fill the dropper to just this number of milligrams - just to this line - no more. Here's a box of medications that needs to be refrigerated.” Tom from the oxygen company places a huge can in the downstairs bathroom and shows me how to set the meter , refill the water bottle, and check to see that the tubing is clean . The tube is long enough to go up to the bedroom, tangling on the newel post and tripping up the cat.
Next day Rosa, a smiling round Haitian woman and nurse's aide, appears at the door ready to help John take a shower. She will come every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
John , a calm New England craftsman and gentleman, seems remarkably able to take all this in his stride. I am falling apart. A hospice social worker calls to say she'd like to meet us before she goes on vacation the next day. She's at the door at about my nap time. John is sleeping upstairs. Bleary, I try to answer her list of questions, “How long has your husband been ill? I'm sorry to ask, but have you selected a mortuary? What are your husband's interests and activities?”
“He's planning to dictate some family stories to a friend,” I say.
“Oh, he likes to write? Perhaps do an autobiography? Well I can get him a book called About Me that might help him get started. It asks leading questions like, 'What is your favorite color?' ”
My husband majored in English, is known for his unique way with words, and has a delightful style all his own. I can't wait to get this well-intentioned woman out of the house. I close the door behind her and giggle all the way to my bed. Wait until I share this with John.
“WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR??”
