Hospice
Yesterday was my dad's final visit with his oncologist. Thanks to his f*cking pancreas, the evil cancer that has also invaded his liver is no longer allowing the organ to do its job. He's really yellow - as if someone airbrushed his skin using a jumbo highlighter. The same pair of dark brown eyes that once commanded respect - now appear as though they are drowning in butter. The "sudden" deterioration was explained by his bilirubin count during his last liver biopsy.
A normal person's bilirubin count is measured at no more than 1. If your count rises up to 1.5, it is considered dangerous. Dad's bilirubin was measured at 5 last week. As of yesterday morning, it doubled to 10. What does that mean to the people in the cheap seats? That means that his health is deteriorating very rapidly, folks. The oncologist was kind, but honest. He told dad that there was nothing left to do. He told my sister that we could do nothing else but watch my father die. They gave us pamphlets on hospice and said they'd set up all arrangements for us.
How thoughtful. Where's the damn manual on how to make our hearts not sink straight down to the soles of our feet?
It's difficult to comprehend that at the same time last week (July 4th), dad was walking around the mall with us to shop for the girls' new back-to-school gear.
NO ONE could convince him to not to participate. He beamed as each Kimchick completed her selections. He and mom even managed to sneak in 4th of July dresses and bathing suits for both kiddos to wear. Once we were done, we went to a Starbucks kiosk, purchased some snacks, then sat in the middle of the mall to bookend the afternoon. Dad gazed at all of us - finally resting his eyes on Jolie. He held her so tightly. It was almost as if he was trying to absorb her into his skin. His stare was so intense - perhaps hoping to be able to take a piece of her inside of his heart.
I know that stare - bec. that was exactly what I was trying to do...with him.
We watched fireworks that night and stayed the entire weekend. I didn't know it then but that was the last time we'd ever be together that way again.
***
When Jon, the Kimchix and I finally arrived late last night, dad was sound asleep on his recliner. He was completely exhausted. My dad spent the day with some of his siblings - mending old wounds and reminiscing. I was told that he had a good day.
Today his hospice equipment was delivered. We have a hospital bed, a motorized mattress topper (that helps prevent bed sores), a portable commode, an oxygen separator machine, a portable oxygen tank, a shower chair, a table top, a wheel chair, a walker, wipes, disposable chucks and a folder with instructions. Never thought I'd ever take inventory like this. His hospice nurse, Barbara, seemed nice enough. Barbara lost her husband to pancreatic cancer just 2 years ago. I suppose that it explains her slightly detached disposition. Lack of complete warmth would normally turn me off, but I know that she has to do that to keep our circumstance from exposing her own grief.
I do notice a pause in her stare whenever she looks at my mom.
Things are feeling pretty real right now.
A normal person's bilirubin count is measured at no more than 1. If your count rises up to 1.5, it is considered dangerous. Dad's bilirubin was measured at 5 last week. As of yesterday morning, it doubled to 10. What does that mean to the people in the cheap seats? That means that his health is deteriorating very rapidly, folks. The oncologist was kind, but honest. He told dad that there was nothing left to do. He told my sister that we could do nothing else but watch my father die. They gave us pamphlets on hospice and said they'd set up all arrangements for us.
How thoughtful. Where's the damn manual on how to make our hearts not sink straight down to the soles of our feet?
It's difficult to comprehend that at the same time last week (July 4th), dad was walking around the mall with us to shop for the girls' new back-to-school gear.
NO ONE could convince him to not to participate. He beamed as each Kimchick completed her selections. He and mom even managed to sneak in 4th of July dresses and bathing suits for both kiddos to wear. Once we were done, we went to a Starbucks kiosk, purchased some snacks, then sat in the middle of the mall to bookend the afternoon. Dad gazed at all of us - finally resting his eyes on Jolie. He held her so tightly. It was almost as if he was trying to absorb her into his skin. His stare was so intense - perhaps hoping to be able to take a piece of her inside of his heart.
I know that stare - bec. that was exactly what I was trying to do...with him.
We watched fireworks that night and stayed the entire weekend. I didn't know it then but that was the last time we'd ever be together that way again.
***
When Jon, the Kimchix and I finally arrived late last night, dad was sound asleep on his recliner. He was completely exhausted. My dad spent the day with some of his siblings - mending old wounds and reminiscing. I was told that he had a good day.
They all look so much alike! Lol!
Today his hospice equipment was delivered. We have a hospital bed, a motorized mattress topper (that helps prevent bed sores), a portable commode, an oxygen separator machine, a portable oxygen tank, a shower chair, a table top, a wheel chair, a walker, wipes, disposable chucks and a folder with instructions. Never thought I'd ever take inventory like this. His hospice nurse, Barbara, seemed nice enough. Barbara lost her husband to pancreatic cancer just 2 years ago. I suppose that it explains her slightly detached disposition. Lack of complete warmth would normally turn me off, but I know that she has to do that to keep our circumstance from exposing her own grief.
I do notice a pause in her stare whenever she looks at my mom.
Things are feeling pretty real right now.
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