COVID, Stroke, Hospice

Sunday afternoon in the midst of getting our Sunday agenda completed, I received a call out of the blue saying Dad had a stroke and was in the ER. After a moment of panic and fear we moved into our emergency mode, making calls, informing. My panic was slowly morphing to dread as the day wore on and the reports continued. Due to COVID I could not visit in the ER, so we continued to parse every word and every nuance from the nurse to the doctor and back again. "Lost use of his left side and his speech is slurred." stuck in my mind and settled on my heart. A man known for his energy, though diminished in years, was now lying alone in an ER trying to hear what was said and wondering what was wrong. If nothing else, this COVID scare has separated us and those we love. I detested it before, I hate it now. 

Through a restless night and impatient waiting and asking for results from C-scan and other tests, they decided to admit him into the hospital. The first tiny bit of good news was that this particular hospital would allow 1 specified visitor a day from 11AM to 6PM. I was there at 10:30am eyeing the people already there who I calculated I could beat to front of the line. Fortunately I did not have to body block anyone and we all got in pretty quickly after the standard questions. They gave me new mask, a wrist band that said "VISITOR" and a sticker to wear in case anyone missed the wrist band. I was logged in, banded, stickered, and approved. Then I raced to the elevators and impatiently rode up to Dad's floor, signed in at the nursing station and got directions to his room...

I had not seen Dad since April. The COVID lockdown was severe at the memory assisted facility. He had fallen in March and April and I had picked him up from the ER both times at the curb and delivered him to the memory care facility to the curb, but I had seen him twice. Both times he had hit his head and had bruising so he looked like the loser in a prize fight. Both times it made me sad, but it was still him with his questions and good humor. (I told him the second time that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he said go ahead and laugh, he would do the crying). This time I was not ready. He was shrunken and misshapened from the stroke. I bent over him and he seemed bewildered by who I was. Fortunately the nurse left the room at that moment and I yanked off my mask so he could see my face. He tried to smile and garbled out "..on" Yes, its me.."on" 

The next few days brought MRI tests, swallow tests, physical therapy, oral therapy and very few positive results. At 98 a stroke had leveled a sweet, gentle man of integrity. As the next few days slipped by filled with decisions and reporting my siblings, it became clear that this event had done more to end his time than anything in the last 10 years. In a fraction of a second, a tiny artery in his head had undone all the vitality, the memories, the good works, the essence of the one I call "Dad". And as the days continued it occurred to me that this was not going to change. This stroke had done the damage that even anti-aircraft fire in the second World War could not do. 

So my days were filled with making decisions based on lousy choices. The tension between quality of life and hope for recovery was infused into every decision I made. After a late night conference with my siblings we all agreed that quality was paramount. But I agonized in private about the consequences of those decisions. Until today. 

They delivered him back to the memory care facility after I had gotten him signed up for Hospice care. The first night was rough. He was restless and wanted to get up. Margaret was trying to make him rest. The Hospice nurse called me 3 times to say he can't stay in the bed that he and Margaret had shared for almost 40 years. I was exasperated that I couldn't help due to the lockdown. In frustration I asked the nurse, "What do you want me to do?!?" She realized then that I was blocked and she would have to handle. So at midnight they found a solution (an aide sitting by the bed). They delivered a hospital bed for my dad and twin bed for Margaret the next day. Not the ideal solution, but those are all gone anyway.

Then this morning I called the attendant in the facility and asked how they were doing. The attendant giggled a little and said they found Margaret getting into his hospital bed. He was very sad and she wanted to comfort him. And all those decisions about rehab hospitals and feeding tubes and hospice care all fell into place. He is with the one he needs the most, and she is with the one she fears won't be here with her. It was a sweet, sad, and somehow affirming moment for me. To know that his life partner, however longer that is, will do what she needs to comfort them both. Can any of us ask for more? 

So, Godspeed to all out there who have lived this same week at one time or another. I come through it exhausted, emotional, and grateful. I guess that is the best we can do at the moment.

Don