Memories of hospice…

Yesterday, I found out one of my friends is going to be dealing with what I dealt with eight years ago – a father in hospice. The two situations differ – her dad’s been sick and hasn’t had much improvement for awhile, my dad was a bit sick, but bike riding and buying stuff with coupons two weeks before. Her dad will have inpatient hospice, mine had it at home. But hospice is hospice. It means that’s it. It means prepare to say goodbye.

Since I’ve had the experience, she’s turned to me to hear my impressions and pick my brain on what else needs to be done. It’s a little easier when the shoe is on the other foot. I’m not dealing with the situation from a raw emotional point of view anymore, hiding in the basement to vent away from him to try and grasp what I was unexpectedly was facing. With some thought, I’ve started to recall the details of that time, what happened, what I had to do, what decisions I faced. Again, easier now to rattle off about coffins, service details, obituaries, and wills.

But I’m finding residual old emotion being dredged up, especially about the actual hospice experience. It was only about 10 days, but it felt like it was forever and it felt extremely surreal. I’d never had to care for someone before and I’d never seen anybody die. My mother died in the hospital. And it wasn’t just anybody, it was my dad – the man who I had had a turbulent relationship with since I was five years old. Here I was, taking care of him at the end of his life since his wife, my mom, wasn’t here to do it (I know she would have had had a difficult time with it…and I hate to say it, but I think I was the stronger person, regardless of the emotion.) I had to try and make my father’s last days as pain-free and pleasant as possible. I had to try and bring in a few people to say goodbye to him, as well as make sure he talked to a few people while he could. I didn’t understand then how quickly he would deteriorate – if I had, I would have made sure his brother came immediately. By the time he was able to come, my dad wasn’t conscious. Watching my dad turn into skin and bones and fight to hold onto his dignity (this was extremely important, as it was with my mom when she was dying) was sobering and sad. Yet I had to hold it together for him.

And now, all of a sudden, I’m revisiting this time in my life and finding I don’t remember certain details. I’m coming to the conclusion that I blocked out certain things, either on purpose or subconsciously, in order to get through the experience. As in my childhood, I was expected to be strong enough to handle my father’s weaknesses, so I guess my beginning and end with my father were bookmarked with obligatory strength.

I hope I can help my friend. I hope I have already. But I’m now trying to steel myself to deal with these dredged-up emotions. Hospice care may allow the person to die at home and not a hospital (in my dad’s case), but the caregiver has a tough experience before, during, and after. I’m being reminded of that now…