Monday, August 01, 2005
August 1, 1988
After a brief, very unpleasant hiatus caused by a bout of Meniere's, I'm resuming the story.
At this point, my grandfather was getting ready to go home. Actually he was ready to go home the day after he was admitted! He hated hospitals. He hated doctors. Most of all, he hated the food.
We didn't know much more at this point than we knew when he went in. The pneumonia had turned out to be PC. He had thrush. He had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, or COPD for short. Which is what smoking for 60 years (or even less) will get you. His t-cells counts were abysmally low and we were warned not to let anyone with flu or any other contagious diseases get too close, because he couldn't fight any infection he might develope. Any cut, infection or fever had to be dealt with immediately for the same reason.
Both Bamps and I had the same question for Dr. S.: did Bamps have AIDS? He had eleven pints of blood after his surgery, we'd all seen the news reports about transmission via blood transfusions. But Dr. S. reported that all the HIV/AIDS tests were inconclusive. So no, he didn't have AIDS if we used the criteria of having positive tests. But, Dr. S. said the tests were not foolproof and we should treat all his symptoms as they occur regardless of whether a particular test was positive or negative.
So we made arrangements for Bamps to come home. One of the hospice nurses came by and introduced herself; Bamps immediately perked up. Most people would be depressed about entering a hospice program, but my grandfather said he'd had a pretty a good run and was more afraid of pain than of dying. That, and of soiling himself.
Anyway, the moment Juanita came through the door and said hello, I could tell my grandfather would have at least one thing to look forward to four days a week. Juanita was from Jamaica, had emerald green eyes and warm mocha skin. Her voice was deep and melodic and warm, and I think my grandfather developed a crush on her from the get go. Over the next few months my grandfather had several nurses who were on rotation, but none would match Juanita!
The hospice doctor came by to introduce himself. Bamps asked him the AIDS question. Dr. D. was very familiar with AIDS and told us that while the lab tests were negative, the thrush, the PC, the low t-cell counts were indicative of possible AIDS, but so little was known about it for sure, especially from transfused blood. Mostly, he said, people thought of it as a gay disease, although he said "there's damn little about it that's gay."
As soon as a commode and an oxygen unit were delivered my grandfather went home. Nurses would come and visit four days a week, and we had a caseworker who would check in with us every two weeks to see how the family was doing. Medications would be delivered on a bi-weekly basis, volunteers could come to take him to his doctors appointments, or even sit and visit so my husband and I could have time to go out for a movie and lunch once in a while. We opted out of the Meals-on-Wheels program because I like to cook, we had a great grill outside, and I wouldn't force Bamps to eat lettuce. Not that M-o-W would, but he figured he'd have to eat it because someone went to all the trouble to cook it and he wouldn't want it to go to waste.
This was such a change from when my grandmother had been ill, also with COPD. She died in 1985, and we hadn't even heard of hospice then. It was just my grandfather and I taking care of her, muddling by as best as we three could. It seemed then like we were all just waiting for the end to come, but no real idea how to handle it. Death was distant, yet imminent. For three years, we all went from day-to-day, until one day Nany's lungs just gave out. Any support we had from her doctors, we got when we took her to the doctor's office or emergency room. Now, just three years later, there was support, not just for my grandfather, but for my husband and I as well. Like Juanita said, "dying is a family affair."
The first thing my grandfather wanted when he got home were some brownies. The thrush was still a huge problem, so he had cut back on his Snickers bars. Not being able to chew them, he sucked on them, and one bar lasts an amazingly long time when you eat them like that. It wasn't very satisfying. Fortunately, there's lots of chocolate in the universe; another one of Bamps' favorites were storebought brownies. Not the expensive Entenmann's ones, but the cheapie Winn-Dixie ones that came in a cellophane wrapped aluminum tray. See, they were just brownies and nuts while the more expensive ones had frosting. For some reason, even if it was chocolate, frosting was never one of my grandfather's favorite things. (I, on the other hand, view cake as simply an "icing delivery system".)
Now that Bamps was home, we set about establishing a routine. It would have some snags here and there, but pretty much it worked well for us.
You're probably wondering about the title. When one of our neighbors, Chrissie, came over shortly after my grandfather came home, she asked if he was sad about dying. He said no. He said fully he intended to live each moment fully until he "keeled over". I didn't think that would make that great a title, so I altered it, but the meaning is the same.
One thing he was certain of: he couldn't die until after the World Series. Preferably with the Yankees winning. So we made an agreement: I would serve him no lettuce (cabbage was acceptable), and he would wait to die until after the World Series.
Worked for me.
At this point, my grandfather was getting ready to go home. Actually he was ready to go home the day after he was admitted! He hated hospitals. He hated doctors. Most of all, he hated the food.
We didn't know much more at this point than we knew when he went in. The pneumonia had turned out to be PC. He had thrush. He had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, or COPD for short. Which is what smoking for 60 years (or even less) will get you. His t-cells counts were abysmally low and we were warned not to let anyone with flu or any other contagious diseases get too close, because he couldn't fight any infection he might develope. Any cut, infection or fever had to be dealt with immediately for the same reason.
Both Bamps and I had the same question for Dr. S.: did Bamps have AIDS? He had eleven pints of blood after his surgery, we'd all seen the news reports about transmission via blood transfusions. But Dr. S. reported that all the HIV/AIDS tests were inconclusive. So no, he didn't have AIDS if we used the criteria of having positive tests. But, Dr. S. said the tests were not foolproof and we should treat all his symptoms as they occur regardless of whether a particular test was positive or negative.
So we made arrangements for Bamps to come home. One of the hospice nurses came by and introduced herself; Bamps immediately perked up. Most people would be depressed about entering a hospice program, but my grandfather said he'd had a pretty a good run and was more afraid of pain than of dying. That, and of soiling himself.
Anyway, the moment Juanita came through the door and said hello, I could tell my grandfather would have at least one thing to look forward to four days a week. Juanita was from Jamaica, had emerald green eyes and warm mocha skin. Her voice was deep and melodic and warm, and I think my grandfather developed a crush on her from the get go. Over the next few months my grandfather had several nurses who were on rotation, but none would match Juanita!
The hospice doctor came by to introduce himself. Bamps asked him the AIDS question. Dr. D. was very familiar with AIDS and told us that while the lab tests were negative, the thrush, the PC, the low t-cell counts were indicative of possible AIDS, but so little was known about it for sure, especially from transfused blood. Mostly, he said, people thought of it as a gay disease, although he said "there's damn little about it that's gay."
As soon as a commode and an oxygen unit were delivered my grandfather went home. Nurses would come and visit four days a week, and we had a caseworker who would check in with us every two weeks to see how the family was doing. Medications would be delivered on a bi-weekly basis, volunteers could come to take him to his doctors appointments, or even sit and visit so my husband and I could have time to go out for a movie and lunch once in a while. We opted out of the Meals-on-Wheels program because I like to cook, we had a great grill outside, and I wouldn't force Bamps to eat lettuce. Not that M-o-W would, but he figured he'd have to eat it because someone went to all the trouble to cook it and he wouldn't want it to go to waste.
This was such a change from when my grandmother had been ill, also with COPD. She died in 1985, and we hadn't even heard of hospice then. It was just my grandfather and I taking care of her, muddling by as best as we three could. It seemed then like we were all just waiting for the end to come, but no real idea how to handle it. Death was distant, yet imminent. For three years, we all went from day-to-day, until one day Nany's lungs just gave out. Any support we had from her doctors, we got when we took her to the doctor's office or emergency room. Now, just three years later, there was support, not just for my grandfather, but for my husband and I as well. Like Juanita said, "dying is a family affair."
The first thing my grandfather wanted when he got home were some brownies. The thrush was still a huge problem, so he had cut back on his Snickers bars. Not being able to chew them, he sucked on them, and one bar lasts an amazingly long time when you eat them like that. It wasn't very satisfying. Fortunately, there's lots of chocolate in the universe; another one of Bamps' favorites were storebought brownies. Not the expensive Entenmann's ones, but the cheapie Winn-Dixie ones that came in a cellophane wrapped aluminum tray. See, they were just brownies and nuts while the more expensive ones had frosting. For some reason, even if it was chocolate, frosting was never one of my grandfather's favorite things. (I, on the other hand, view cake as simply an "icing delivery system".)
Now that Bamps was home, we set about establishing a routine. It would have some snags here and there, but pretty much it worked well for us.
You're probably wondering about the title. When one of our neighbors, Chrissie, came over shortly after my grandfather came home, she asked if he was sad about dying. He said no. He said fully he intended to live each moment fully until he "keeled over". I didn't think that would make that great a title, so I altered it, but the meaning is the same.
One thing he was certain of: he couldn't die until after the World Series. Preferably with the Yankees winning. So we made an agreement: I would serve him no lettuce (cabbage was acceptable), and he would wait to die until after the World Series.
Worked for me.
