Hospice-tality

Last week, I spent the majority of one day on the phone with three different representatives of a hospice organization. The nurse, the social worker and the chaplain all had a litany of questions for me regarding my father. 

Calling in hospice was another gut wrenching decision for me. It seemed to me like I was giving up, seeing Dad's situation has hopeless. But after all those conversations took place, each one more difficult than the previous one, I realized that it is the logical progression towards the end of life. 

Dad began refusing to go to the dining room for his meals, then refused to eat at all. His weight loss is now at 49 pounds and his skin hangs limply from his bones. He has developed pressure sores on his bottom and must be regularly turned in bed in order to avoid worsening, or causing more of them. His eyes, which used to spark with life, are now dull and drawn into his head. 

The nurse, LaToya, explained to me that his appearance is natural at this stage of life. She gave me very specific reasons why those things were happening, and it helped me understand a little better what was going on. Melvin, the social worker, was a delightful conversationalist and had me disclosing very personal information before I even realized I was saying it. He is quite skilled in his job, and I see why he does it. He made me feel important, helped me truly understand that my decisions, while difficult at best, were the right ones for Dad and me. He guided me through the entire process, helping me clarify when it all began and why. The chaplain, Terry, was soft spoken and kind. We discussed my father's faith and his church experiences; we talked about his childhood, his marriage to my mother, her passing and his subsequent brief marriage to the Hell Beast. We discussed the possibility of Dad having some unresolved issues. 

My dad worked most of his adult life for the Santa Fe Railroad. Over 40 years ago, he was on duty during a tragic event. A car, filled with a family, tried to beat the train and crossed the tracks before the train could even begin to stop. The car was demolished and each occupant was instantly killed. He still carries guilt regarding that event, even though he knows he was not personally at fault. It was a traumatic event for him, one that he has never forgotten. He has spoken about in the past with me, with one of his nurses, with a church friend. In talking with Terry, I encouraged him to try to get Dad to talk about it, and hopefully the chaplain can help him to find some peace. 

Going over those conversations in my head, it occurred to me that those people are not just helping my father through his transition; they are also helping me. The nurse keeps me updated on Dad's physical well being, so that I have complete understanding. The social worker provides insight for me as to how to properly honor my father and respect his final battle. The chaplain guides me through issues of faith, assuring me that Dad will rejoice when his time on earth is done. In the short time hospice has been in place, I've come to a point where I accept that I will lose the physical being of my father, but I am comforted that he will always be with me in my heart.