There aren’t many words in the English language I hate, but I have a new one. “Hospice”. Simply put, hospice means that people come to take care of your family members before they die. These people are so sick that they can’t get out of bed to take care of themselves because they are in so much pain. Hospice pumps them full of pain medicine to try and make them more comfortable before they pass for good.
For the record, I do not hate Hospice staff of Hospice nurses. In fact, these people are some of the most wonderful people in the world. If you have the ability to deal with the people that have exhausted all their other options for treatment, you are better than me. If you are strong enough to deal with the families of these people, the families that are so sad to see their loved one suffer, that know what is going to happen, but are just hoping to get one more “good” day, you are stronger than I am. A person so amazingly strong and compassionate is hard to find. I love these people. This is not a rant on hospice staff or the organization in general. This is simply just a rant on the actual meaning of the word.
Eight years ago, I had my first experience with what hospice meant when I saw my mom’s aunt (who was more like a grandma than my actual grandparents) die. The news was shocking because she told nobody she was sick. That’s just the type of person she was. Seeing her in that recliner drugged on all that medicine was sad and scary, but everyone knew she would eventually get sick. She smoked for years. I remember the days when she always had a cigarette in her hand. For her to get emphysema wasn’t shocking. She knew she had it for awhile and she didn’t let anyone know because she didn’t want anyone to worry about her. I remember her taking my hand and telling me to make sure I got the medicine for my eczema. She was unable to open her eyes, but she could feel the rough spot on my hand from my eczema and knew it was me. She was always worrying about everyone else…that’s just who she was. The next day she died.
A few years after that, I watched my Dad’s uncle go through it. He had a brain tumor and the cancer eventually went through his body. Once an incredibly healthy man, he lost the battle rather quickly.
This week, a good friend of my Grandpa died. Even though we weren’t related, we called him Uncle Walter because we have known him for so long. He was sick for months, went into Hospice the beginning of the week and died Thursday. He had lost his wife about a year and a half ago and was ready to go be with her. He’d basically given up on trying to live. It was his time.
All of my other experiences combined don’t match up to what I’m feeling right now. All of the other times I’ve seen family remembers go through hospice care the only emotion I felt was sadness. This time, I’m angry.
A few years ago when Brenda, my parents good friend and neighbor across the street, found out she had breast cancer, we were all shocked. She took care of herself, her family didn’t have a history of the disease, and she was fairly young. We were all sad and scared, but this was breast cancer, and they have made tremendous strides with breast cancer research. Breast cancer is survivable. My grandmother had gone through it twice and she didn’t take care of herself. Brenda would get through this and we would all be there to help her.
She had surgery to get the tumor removed and was told she was “cancer free”, but then the cancer came back. She had to have another surgery and go through rounds of chemotherapy. Even though she went through such a traumatic experience, her attitude towards life was still so positive. She joked around about her wig, saying she loved it because she never had to do her hair and it always looked amazing. That’s just who Brenda was, always optimistic and smiling.
So when the cancer came back again and the doctors told her it had spread and she didn’t have much time left, we were all shocked yet again, but she was optimistic and tried to enjoy the months she had left with her family and friends.
When my mom told me 2 weeks ago that Brenda was in hospice care and I needed to go see her because it could be the last time I did, I wasn’t really sure what to think. Last Saturday, I helped my parents with a garage sale to try and get rid of some stuff, and after we packed up the things I didn’t sell, we walked across the street so I could see her for what more than likely will be my last time. I’d like to think she knew I was there. She was lying in her bed sleeping, a skeleton of herself. She hadn’t eaten anything for 9 days and that was Saturday. My mother told me it was going to be hard to see, but nothing could have prepared me for it. As I write this, tears are streaming down my cheeks. This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
She’s been fighting for over 2 weeks now, her body just refusing to give up. Eventually, the lack of food is going to cause all her organs to shut down and she’ll leave us for good. It’s just not right. It’s not fair. It’s not the way it should be. She did everything right. She took care of herself by eating right and exercising. She was a good person and great mother to kids that haven’t hit their teenage years. It makes me angry to see her go through this.
It just goes to show you that no matter how hard you try to take care of yourself, there are certain things we just can’t control.
Tags: family, life
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