The admissions nurse from the hospice service came to explain the program to me and assess my case.
My husband and I asked her all manner of pertinent questions, and she answered them fine.
She gave me a brief medical interview, and wrote lots of checkmarks on the chart that is going to be kept here at my house.
I looked it over before she left.
She had explained to me perfectly rationally the advancing levels of care they provide. It goes from weekly visits from a nurse and aides to round-the-clock shift nursing care to assistance if necessary in a nursing home.
As is my custom, I very cerebrally took it all in and nodded assent.
As I may have mentioned, I just happen to have been born pretty stoic with the whole medical process. I actually love being in the hospital. I get the Bucky Beaver Badge for being an exemplary patient for all the providers.
But when I saw the24-hour care checklist with my own eyes on paper, my heart stopped. The very basic care needs provided drove home images of my very dependent 90-y-o dad, who couldn’t even brush his own teeth.
I pride myself on my toughness and robustness, especially when I have an ailment.
I envisioned the progression of my cancer looked this: going about my business, growing gradually wearier and lying down more, than feeling pain in my stomach and back, and eventually lying suffering but valiant in bed, with all my faculties.
But today I saw the checklist—the checklist for me.
I instantly saw myself feeble, incoherent, and drooling in my bed, far beyond any sense of control.
I asked her, is it possible to be admitted to the hospital for care if I get bad?
I always feel like the emcee running the show in the hospital. It’s always been my milieu.
“Oh, no, When you qualify for hospice, you are at the point where you are no longer a candidate for aggressive treatment of your condition. Hospitals are for treatment, not for terminal patients.”
Wham.
I saw my own dissolution right before my eyes, and I had no clever boasts to stop it.