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The Twilight Years Are Here

The Twilight Years Are Here

Saturday, October 20, 2012

It's Just the Two of Us Here


Yep, it’s official. Dad has a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI). It took until Tuesday to get a viable sample. Because it was almost closing time at the lab, it was Wednesday before we got the results. I am not a patient person by nature but this has been a ridiculously long drawn out process. A normal person would go to the ER and they would diagnose it quickly, hand you a prescription for an antibiotic then send you on your merry way. Dad is on hospice so things are no longer normal. I cannot take Dad to the hospital this time because they would admit him. I promised him that he would die at home. I will honor that promise.

By Tuesday night, he was aggressive and combative, obviously not in his right mind. Every time I got within arms-reach, he would grab my arms in a grip stronger than I could have ever dream he was capable of. He would squeeze them tighter and tighter until I could break free. He laughed and told me he wanted to break them. He would claw and pinch. When I fed him, he spit the food at me and was convinced I was trying to poison him. He tried to bite me multiple times.

On Wednesday the tests results came back that he had a raging UTI. For a variety of reasons, they had to grow a culture to determine which antibiotic to put him on, which meant waiting another 24 hours. While the nurse was here she got to see him trying to break my arm. She said it even scared her. He was getting worse and we both knew it. They started him on pain medication believing his combativeness was caused by pain he couldn’t communicate to us. Apparently they were right because the behaviors stopped as soon as he started taking it.

By noon on Thursday Dad had become less responsive, sleeping constantly. Barely rousing to eat, drink and take meds. Steadfastly, he refused to open his eyes. That afternoon, the culture results came back…contaminated. Once again, we needed a urine sample. It was getting harder and harder to get one.


Friday dawned and I was shocked to see the further rate of deterioration. He is beginning to look gaunt. He doesn’t respond to anything but pain (ie. If I move him to change his diaper he moans). His oxygen saturation level has dropped to a consistent 89. I started him on 2 liters of oxygen and called hospice. We quickly agreed it would be best to get a nurse out here to get a sample using a catheter since it was obvious there was no other way to get one. It was also obvious we were running out of time.

A new nurse came out and she seemed to understand my frustration at the whole situation. Once we had the sample, she got the doctor on the phone. She requested that she be allowed to call in a prescription for a standard antibiotic, Cipro to buy us time to get the lab results. He started it as soon as I could pick it up, but I have to wonder if it’s already too late. This is the point where I have to have faith in medical science and BELIEVE that it might work.

This morning Dad was aware of me when I gave him his meds, crushed up and swimming in water. My heart swelled to nearly bursting when he croaked out a labored, “I love you”. I still can’t get him to open his eyes. But he did squeeze my hand weakly in response to my squeezing his, which is more than I’ve gotten since Wednesday. The threat of aspiration hangs over us as I continue to try to get water, Ensure and medications down his throat. I know I am fighting a losing battle. Still, I must continue to try.

Dad is 90 years old. He’ll reach 91 if he sees Nov. 11th. His medical history is unbelievable. His list of current diseases and conditions is quite lengthy. The number of pills he takes daily is staggering, even now. He lost his bride two and a half years ago. All of his old friends are gone now. He has buried two of his daughters. He has zero quality of life and has had for quite a while now. He has given up and is ready to go.

His body is slowly shutting down as I sit here listening to him breathe, the sound separate from the steady rise and fall of the oxygen machine. This afternoon, Richard helped me get him cleaned up and get his bedding changed. He roused as we finally got him resettled and actually opened his eyes. Dad focused his eyes briefly on his son and whispered, “I love you”. He tried to talk more but the effort was simply too much. He managed to keep his eyes open through almost half an Ensure and a bit of water. His eyes trying to focus as he followed my movements. Eventually, his eyelids softly closed, his eyelashes fanning out against his sunken skin.

He has been sleeping ever since. It is just the two of us here. I hold his wrinkled hand tightly. My voice rings loudly in my ears as I talk to him while coaxing him to swallow “one more dropperful of water”. Each time I succeed my heart rejoices. Each time he chokes, my heart plummets. Every once in a while, he tries to clear his throat then all settles back to the rhythms of man and machine. And time marches on…

2 comments:

  1. Oh Shari, my heart is breaking for ya'll to be going through losing "Dad". I know how much he means to you. May God carry you through this difficult time.....I love you Jean

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  2. thank you for posting this. and thank you for contacting me. i am - as i have been on many of these occasions - without words. i think the role you have been given is the hardest role of all - to be on the receiving end of Pop's love. i pray - for your sake - and especially Pop's sake - that it is over soon. i love you with all of my heart, shari. - john

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