Since my hubby is busy installing a new HVAC system and trying to take care of all the no-heat calls coming into our business right now he isn't able to get away to visit his dad in his 'latest' nursing home (what a fiasco). So since Harold (father-in-law) wanted some jogging suits purchased for him and his razor brought to him it was left to me to make a run to KC on Friday to deliver the items to him. I didn't mind, it gave me time to make the hour and a half drive and listen to Caroline Myss's CD's on chakra's and the energy system at work within the body. Since my latest paper for school is on chakra's I figured I'd be killing two birds with one stone.
The drive down was sunny but frigid and cold for a March day. But true to this month and the 'windy days of March' we have had windy days for several days now. The wind gusts will knock you off your feet and the windchimes out front are slamming into the house with each gust Mother Nature blows. I actually saw one of my plastic trash cans go racing by the front window the other day. "Hmmm," I thought, "I do believe that's our barrel leaving home. Thar she blows." I had bigger fish to fry rather than chasing the barrel up the street. Such as being sure the storm door wasn't blown out of my hand and broken or bent. "Gee Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!" Remembering not to pop the automatic trunk lid without holding onto it and not throwing my car door open so the wind could snatch it up and slam it into someone else's car. I was cautioned by my better half on guarding against these possible problems. "Yes Dear I'll try to remember that." (rolling my eyes)
So I decided to take my Foo-Foo Mutts, as Dwight likes to call them. That would be our Shih-Tzu's: Maggie and Toby. They were following me around watching me pack everything I thought I'd need. Picking up on the fact that I was going to be leaving soon. So they begin to turn on the charm and somehow make their big brown eyes look sad and imploring. 'Please take us along. We've been cooped up in the house for days on end. Look, we're so cute. Don't you feel sorry for us? We'd be good, we promise. Pleeeeeeeeeeezzzzze?" And, since I'm a huge pushover (and they know it) I rationalized taking them along as, 'Well Harold would probably like to see them. They could go in the nursing home, they allow pets. Besides if I don't take them I won't be able to live with them for two days after I return." Settled: They went. They were good as gold and laid quietly in the passengers seat and slept.
But when I got to Harold's house in Liberty I decided they should stay there while I went to the Home to visit. I was going to have my hands full carrying two shopping bags full of clothes, my purse, my coat, and a drink carrier with a shake for Harold and my usual Barq's Root Beer. Plus, you have to park in the lot, always the farthest spot away and walk a mile after you're inside. Or so it seems when you've got a load to carry. I decided I didn't need them tugging at the leashes and tangling up my feet in the process and making me fall. I've fallen enough these last two months. Twice down steps. Those two incidents would make humorous posts.
It turns out it was good they didn't go along. As I got out of the car with my arms full of sacks, drinks and my coat, his favorite hat fell out and of course the wind took it and blew it across the parking lot. So here I am, in heels no less, arms full, chasing his hat across the lot. Just as I'd get close to it and reach for it, the wind would snatch it up and carry it away again. Always just out of my reach. I began to think that I must look like Jamie Lee Curtis chasing the canned ham down the street in "Christmas With The Kranks." Finally I was able to take one of my heels and stomp on it. "Gotcha, you little son of a bitch!", I muttered. Out of breath I snatched it up and hot footed it across the lot and into the front door. Where I had to prove I wasn't a terrorist and do everything but strip down to my bra and panty hose. By now I'm beat and ready to go back home....
I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I arrived in his room. The big thing was I almost didn't recognize him. I had to back out and look at the room number to be sure I was in the right room. There in the recliner sat a very old looking man with his head resting on his hand sleeping soundly. I decided to wake him. 'Harold?", I said taking my coat off and putting the bags on the table. "I'm here and I brought you some things, plus a vanilla milk shake." He looked up at me and acknowledged my presence. But it was a minute or so before he said, "Oh Donna! It's you!"
"Yep, it's me, in all my glorious form! Dwight couldn't come and I knew you wanted some clothes and your razor. Here, I stopped and got you a shake." I stuck the straw in it and gave it to him. His bony fingers reached up for the styrofoam cup. In between sips he kept telling me how good it tasted and how he hoped the staff didn't catch him with it. I explained to him it was okay for him to have it but I wasn't getting through to him. Maybe the thought of forbidden fruit made it taste that much sweeter.
He's been very emotional since his wife of 50 plus years went into a nursing home with Alzheimers in 2001 and passed on in 2005. But he's extremely emotional now. It seems anything can set him off on a torrent of tears. But according to my family it's only that bad around me. They informed me the other day, good naturedly, that I seem to have that effect on people. 'You know, people just feel like they can open up around you and confide in you." I guess that's a good trait, although I don't know what to do for him when he starts crying like that so I just sit with him and hold his hand or just be quiet and wait. Usually he regains his composer quickly but I've noticed lately that it's becoming harder for him to gain control. I've never run into any male that cries as freely as Harold does. Maybe it's because he's a Pisces, like me and we're emotional people. Maybe his parents never chastised him with real men don't cry. I have no idea, I just know I make him cry. And all I have to do is be present.
"I brought your razor Harold. I heard you wanted it and Dwight told me, if I left home without it, I might as well t urn around and go back home or I'd be in trouble." I gave it to him and he held it lovingly. Stroking the case it was in and opening it up, he began to cry again. "Here let me plug it in for you." I was thinking that I could take his mind off his tears and it worked. I plugged it in and he wanted help to get to the mirror to shave. He can only stand and no longer walk so I showed him that his bedside tray has a mirror in it which can be opened and he can sit and shave. I situated him and opened the mirror. He looked into it and saw himself for the first time in two months. He began to cry again at his image.
I'm thinking, 'Good job Donna! What else can you do to top this?"
Harold hasn't seen himself since he's lost 20 pounds and his hair has fallen out from chemo. He ran his bony fingers along his thinning hair and as he cried he said, 'My hair is falling out!" About that time my cell phone rang and it was my daughter. I used the opportunity to move out of the room to talk to her and give him a chance to come to terms with his changing body. After all there's nothing I can say to him to fix it. I tried to place myself in his shoes and decided that I'd just need some alone time to process it all.
A little more than a month ago we had gotten a call from the people who had delivered his meals every day saying that he didn't come to the door that day. Knowing that he planned his whole day around his noon time meal we knew something was wrong. For the last several months we'd seen a decline in his ability to talk and get around. He was also growing a large tumor on his collar bone that was pushing it's way into his voice box causing him to barely be able to speak. We made the hour and a half trip to his house to find him lying at the base of his stairs, face down, half dressed and looking dead. I honestly thought when I saw him he was gone, but miraculously he raised his head and moaned. Turns out he'd been there for more than 24 hours. He had fallen the day before as he stood up to answer the door for his meal. But that driver didn't notify anyone that he didn't come to the door and if it hadn't been for the second driver calling we'd have not found him until it was too late. How he managed to fall down steps, in a chair no less and not break anything was miraculous.
But with all the tests they did on him they discovered he had bone cancer and the tumor on his collar bone was a malignant outgrowth of that condition. Not only that, his kidneys were functioning at 1/2oth of their normal ability, probably from his deteriorating muscles and the toxins they were putting off or so the doctors believed at the time. They believe he also has Parkinson's Disease. Even Harold doesn't know this, why tell him? To me it seemed bleak and his quality of life, should he live, would be very limited. They informed us that without chemo he would die within two weeks. We weighed that situation and wondered if life would be worth living after the cancer was in remission. 'Oh we can get him back to the way he was four months ago." We decided to go on with the cancer treatment. After all, if we didn't do it, later we might wonder if we'd done everything we should have done. So he received his first dose of chemo and within two days he was awake and talking and knowing what was going on. Then his insurance company decided to boot him out of the hospital. He had taken out Humana in place of his Medicare coverage. Something that Humana is selling to a lot of senior citizens because they cover their drugs whereas Medicare does not. So many seniors, including Harold, think they are covered under anything. But Humana was refusing to let him stay in the hospital and refusing any nursing home except one.
That nursing home is one of the worst, I think, in KC. He went there on a Friday and by Monday he was severely dehydrated, had staph infection and had fallen, bruising up the left side of his back. The home had managed to take the two weeks of improvement the hospital had done and undo all of it making him even worse than he was when he was first admitted, all in the span of about 3 days. They managed to do this by ignoring him, not giving him his IV's he needed, nor helping him eat. He tried to get up and walk so he could find someone to tell them how thirsty he was, but of course he was too weak and fell from his wheelchair. Only then did they discover how sick he was and sent him back to the hospital. That was on a Monday. On Wednesday when we called they couldn't find him. Nobody had felt it necessary to tell us they sent him to a hospital. In fact, they weren't sure which hospital he was sent to. It was only when the hospital doctor called to update us did we know where he was.
The new place he is in now is much better but he can't stay there. His room fee's are more than $9,000 a month. Can you believe that? In the meantime we're trying to switch him back to Medicare but are waiting on Social Security to make this switch. Since it is the government, who knows how long we'll have to wait? My advice to anyone who has switched their Medicare over to these crooks should get busy immediately and switch it back to avoid these problems. Since Harold is a stubborn man and cheap to boot, he thought he was getting a royal deal for $10 a month.
I helped him try on the jogging suits we'd bought for him and he cried with each one he tried on. I helped him shave and then get into his wheelchair for dinner. They begin to get them in their chairs and down to the dining room around 4:30. Now, dinner doesn't seem to be until 5:30 or 6:00 but residents will go down early and sit at the tables and wait. Maybe they figure it's different scenery than their rooms. I wheeled Harold down there and as we walked in, there were people everywhere in wheelchairs sitting at tables waiting for dinner.
The thing that struck me the most was that no one was speaking to each other. It was totally quiet and each resident had a dead expression on their face. They all looked our direction as we went in and I smiled and greeted them as we passed but their expressions never changed. They didn't smile back or acknowledge they saw me in any way, shape or form. I wheeled him over to a table in the very back of the room that was empty. Once he was situated I hugged him goodbye and left again passing the others and smiling and speaking to them. Again nothing. It was like they were waiting and not necessarily for food. These people looked like they were waiting for something. Salvation? Release? Death?
And I left thinking, "It is possible to live too long. Once you've outlived your ability to lead a 'life' our time is over due. Way overdue if everyday you are just surviving."
Nursing homes are a last stop in the train ride of life. Next stop....Spirit World.
The drive down was sunny but frigid and cold for a March day. But true to this month and the 'windy days of March' we have had windy days for several days now. The wind gusts will knock you off your feet and the windchimes out front are slamming into the house with each gust Mother Nature blows. I actually saw one of my plastic trash cans go racing by the front window the other day. "Hmmm," I thought, "I do believe that's our barrel leaving home. Thar she blows." I had bigger fish to fry rather than chasing the barrel up the street. Such as being sure the storm door wasn't blown out of my hand and broken or bent. "Gee Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!" Remembering not to pop the automatic trunk lid without holding onto it and not throwing my car door open so the wind could snatch it up and slam it into someone else's car. I was cautioned by my better half on guarding against these possible problems. "Yes Dear I'll try to remember that." (rolling my eyes)
So I decided to take my Foo-Foo Mutts, as Dwight likes to call them. That would be our Shih-Tzu's: Maggie and Toby. They were following me around watching me pack everything I thought I'd need. Picking up on the fact that I was going to be leaving soon. So they begin to turn on the charm and somehow make their big brown eyes look sad and imploring. 'Please take us along. We've been cooped up in the house for days on end. Look, we're so cute. Don't you feel sorry for us? We'd be good, we promise. Pleeeeeeeeeeezzzzze?" And, since I'm a huge pushover (and they know it) I rationalized taking them along as, 'Well Harold would probably like to see them. They could go in the nursing home, they allow pets. Besides if I don't take them I won't be able to live with them for two days after I return." Settled: They went. They were good as gold and laid quietly in the passengers seat and slept.
But when I got to Harold's house in Liberty I decided they should stay there while I went to the Home to visit. I was going to have my hands full carrying two shopping bags full of clothes, my purse, my coat, and a drink carrier with a shake for Harold and my usual Barq's Root Beer. Plus, you have to park in the lot, always the farthest spot away and walk a mile after you're inside. Or so it seems when you've got a load to carry. I decided I didn't need them tugging at the leashes and tangling up my feet in the process and making me fall. I've fallen enough these last two months. Twice down steps. Those two incidents would make humorous posts.
It turns out it was good they didn't go along. As I got out of the car with my arms full of sacks, drinks and my coat, his favorite hat fell out and of course the wind took it and blew it across the parking lot. So here I am, in heels no less, arms full, chasing his hat across the lot. Just as I'd get close to it and reach for it, the wind would snatch it up and carry it away again. Always just out of my reach. I began to think that I must look like Jamie Lee Curtis chasing the canned ham down the street in "Christmas With The Kranks." Finally I was able to take one of my heels and stomp on it. "Gotcha, you little son of a bitch!", I muttered. Out of breath I snatched it up and hot footed it across the lot and into the front door. Where I had to prove I wasn't a terrorist and do everything but strip down to my bra and panty hose. By now I'm beat and ready to go back home....
I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I arrived in his room. The big thing was I almost didn't recognize him. I had to back out and look at the room number to be sure I was in the right room. There in the recliner sat a very old looking man with his head resting on his hand sleeping soundly. I decided to wake him. 'Harold?", I said taking my coat off and putting the bags on the table. "I'm here and I brought you some things, plus a vanilla milk shake." He looked up at me and acknowledged my presence. But it was a minute or so before he said, "Oh Donna! It's you!"
"Yep, it's me, in all my glorious form! Dwight couldn't come and I knew you wanted some clothes and your razor. Here, I stopped and got you a shake." I stuck the straw in it and gave it to him. His bony fingers reached up for the styrofoam cup. In between sips he kept telling me how good it tasted and how he hoped the staff didn't catch him with it. I explained to him it was okay for him to have it but I wasn't getting through to him. Maybe the thought of forbidden fruit made it taste that much sweeter.
He's been very emotional since his wife of 50 plus years went into a nursing home with Alzheimers in 2001 and passed on in 2005. But he's extremely emotional now. It seems anything can set him off on a torrent of tears. But according to my family it's only that bad around me. They informed me the other day, good naturedly, that I seem to have that effect on people. 'You know, people just feel like they can open up around you and confide in you." I guess that's a good trait, although I don't know what to do for him when he starts crying like that so I just sit with him and hold his hand or just be quiet and wait. Usually he regains his composer quickly but I've noticed lately that it's becoming harder for him to gain control. I've never run into any male that cries as freely as Harold does. Maybe it's because he's a Pisces, like me and we're emotional people. Maybe his parents never chastised him with real men don't cry. I have no idea, I just know I make him cry. And all I have to do is be present.
"I brought your razor Harold. I heard you wanted it and Dwight told me, if I left home without it, I might as well t urn around and go back home or I'd be in trouble." I gave it to him and he held it lovingly. Stroking the case it was in and opening it up, he began to cry again. "Here let me plug it in for you." I was thinking that I could take his mind off his tears and it worked. I plugged it in and he wanted help to get to the mirror to shave. He can only stand and no longer walk so I showed him that his bedside tray has a mirror in it which can be opened and he can sit and shave. I situated him and opened the mirror. He looked into it and saw himself for the first time in two months. He began to cry again at his image.
I'm thinking, 'Good job Donna! What else can you do to top this?"
Harold hasn't seen himself since he's lost 20 pounds and his hair has fallen out from chemo. He ran his bony fingers along his thinning hair and as he cried he said, 'My hair is falling out!" About that time my cell phone rang and it was my daughter. I used the opportunity to move out of the room to talk to her and give him a chance to come to terms with his changing body. After all there's nothing I can say to him to fix it. I tried to place myself in his shoes and decided that I'd just need some alone time to process it all.
A little more than a month ago we had gotten a call from the people who had delivered his meals every day saying that he didn't come to the door that day. Knowing that he planned his whole day around his noon time meal we knew something was wrong. For the last several months we'd seen a decline in his ability to talk and get around. He was also growing a large tumor on his collar bone that was pushing it's way into his voice box causing him to barely be able to speak. We made the hour and a half trip to his house to find him lying at the base of his stairs, face down, half dressed and looking dead. I honestly thought when I saw him he was gone, but miraculously he raised his head and moaned. Turns out he'd been there for more than 24 hours. He had fallen the day before as he stood up to answer the door for his meal. But that driver didn't notify anyone that he didn't come to the door and if it hadn't been for the second driver calling we'd have not found him until it was too late. How he managed to fall down steps, in a chair no less and not break anything was miraculous.
But with all the tests they did on him they discovered he had bone cancer and the tumor on his collar bone was a malignant outgrowth of that condition. Not only that, his kidneys were functioning at 1/2oth of their normal ability, probably from his deteriorating muscles and the toxins they were putting off or so the doctors believed at the time. They believe he also has Parkinson's Disease. Even Harold doesn't know this, why tell him? To me it seemed bleak and his quality of life, should he live, would be very limited. They informed us that without chemo he would die within two weeks. We weighed that situation and wondered if life would be worth living after the cancer was in remission. 'Oh we can get him back to the way he was four months ago." We decided to go on with the cancer treatment. After all, if we didn't do it, later we might wonder if we'd done everything we should have done. So he received his first dose of chemo and within two days he was awake and talking and knowing what was going on. Then his insurance company decided to boot him out of the hospital. He had taken out Humana in place of his Medicare coverage. Something that Humana is selling to a lot of senior citizens because they cover their drugs whereas Medicare does not. So many seniors, including Harold, think they are covered under anything. But Humana was refusing to let him stay in the hospital and refusing any nursing home except one.
That nursing home is one of the worst, I think, in KC. He went there on a Friday and by Monday he was severely dehydrated, had staph infection and had fallen, bruising up the left side of his back. The home had managed to take the two weeks of improvement the hospital had done and undo all of it making him even worse than he was when he was first admitted, all in the span of about 3 days. They managed to do this by ignoring him, not giving him his IV's he needed, nor helping him eat. He tried to get up and walk so he could find someone to tell them how thirsty he was, but of course he was too weak and fell from his wheelchair. Only then did they discover how sick he was and sent him back to the hospital. That was on a Monday. On Wednesday when we called they couldn't find him. Nobody had felt it necessary to tell us they sent him to a hospital. In fact, they weren't sure which hospital he was sent to. It was only when the hospital doctor called to update us did we know where he was.
The new place he is in now is much better but he can't stay there. His room fee's are more than $9,000 a month. Can you believe that? In the meantime we're trying to switch him back to Medicare but are waiting on Social Security to make this switch. Since it is the government, who knows how long we'll have to wait? My advice to anyone who has switched their Medicare over to these crooks should get busy immediately and switch it back to avoid these problems. Since Harold is a stubborn man and cheap to boot, he thought he was getting a royal deal for $10 a month.
I helped him try on the jogging suits we'd bought for him and he cried with each one he tried on. I helped him shave and then get into his wheelchair for dinner. They begin to get them in their chairs and down to the dining room around 4:30. Now, dinner doesn't seem to be until 5:30 or 6:00 but residents will go down early and sit at the tables and wait. Maybe they figure it's different scenery than their rooms. I wheeled Harold down there and as we walked in, there were people everywhere in wheelchairs sitting at tables waiting for dinner.
The thing that struck me the most was that no one was speaking to each other. It was totally quiet and each resident had a dead expression on their face. They all looked our direction as we went in and I smiled and greeted them as we passed but their expressions never changed. They didn't smile back or acknowledge they saw me in any way, shape or form. I wheeled him over to a table in the very back of the room that was empty. Once he was situated I hugged him goodbye and left again passing the others and smiling and speaking to them. Again nothing. It was like they were waiting and not necessarily for food. These people looked like they were waiting for something. Salvation? Release? Death?
And I left thinking, "It is possible to live too long. Once you've outlived your ability to lead a 'life' our time is over due. Way overdue if everyday you are just surviving."
Nursing homes are a last stop in the train ride of life. Next stop....Spirit World.
