by Bella Rum
I can’t find time to do an entire post, so I write a paragraph here and there.
It’s 9:30 a.m. June 13. and Dad is finally sleeping. His days and nights have flipped. He stays awake all night and falls asleep around 8:30 am and sleeps all day. He no longer takes any of his previous medications because they wouldn’t go to his stomach anyway. He only gets morphine and ativan now. We put the morphine in his cheek where it is absorbed directly into the blood stream. The ativan tablet dissolves under his tongue. We give him just enough morphine to control the neuropathic pain. Ativan is a common script for oxygen starved patients. It helps him to relax and eases the panic.
He watches the Yankees. Well, he doesn’t watch so much as he dozes and watches and dozes and watches, but he wants the television on that channel and always wants to know the score. Those damn Yankees will be the last thing he remembers.
1:40 a.m. June 14
As you can see, I wrote a couple of paragraphs, and something (i don’t remember what) happened and then something else and something else, and I didn’t get back here until now. My son and grandson are coming later today and my niece.
I’ve been up with Dad for a while. He goes through periods where he wants a sip of water every five minutes. I slept in his recliner next to his bed the first night because he was awake the entire night. H slept there the second night. Tonight we gave him ativan before bedtime, and I think it helped because he’s only been awake for a couple of hours tonight. He’s settled down now so I”m going to try to catch a little shuteye.
8:23 a.m. June 14
The hospice nurse will be here in a few minutes. Dad has had his bath and is all spiffed up. We give him the pain medication before his bath so it won’t hurt as much. Of course, we bathe him in the bed now. They halved the script for the 72-hour pain patch. We put it on last night, but his right arm is trembling/jerking – a common side effect. I don’t like it and will talk to the nurse when he gets here.
9:54 a.m. June 14
The hospice nurse left about twenty minutes ago. His name is Robert. He’s filling in for Dad’s regular nurse, Willie Mae. She goes by Willie. I told her that “Willie Mae” sounded like a very Southern name. She said, “South Carolina.” She’s of ample girth, has a dark chocolate complexion and a dazzling smile. I don’t know how she does her job. She has two patients over thirty miles from here, and has to use the tunnel to get back and forth. Enough said. She’s so helpful and supportive. We’re very lucky to have her.
9:03 p.m. June 14
It’s been a busy day. We had a stream of visitors, but fortunately they arrived in in ones and twos. My grandson came with my son. Dad always had a thing for him. I’m going to bed.
EDIT: October 2
I must have thought it was June when I wrote this. The spectacular thing is how I repeated the mistake five times. I was in a bad place. I guess I wanted to be anywhere that wasn’t September.