Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Christmas Time is Coming
(Sorry about not posting. I meant to keep up with this, but I seem to have developed some health problems of my own. Back to the story...)
After Thanksgiving, my grandfather started to lose weight rapidly. That's the bad news. The good news is that for the first time in almost 70 years he didn't need glasses to read. His glaucoma had actually reshaped his eyes into a perfect 20/20. His opthomologist said she had heard of it, but never seen it. So now Bamps was reading the sports pages and whatever else he could get his hands on, especially if it was by John D. MacDonald or Zane Grey. He was even doing crossword puzzles again, although his tremor made it hard to hold a pencil.
His appetite had simply decreased. He wasn't hungry, except for a childhood favorite of cottage cheese and catsup. (Yeah, gross!) Fortunately he did like the chocolate Ensure, so there was some caloric intake.
It was a very hard time. Hank (my husband) had taken over bathing my grandfather because my grandfather has taken to having modesty attacks. He was also mortified about his lack of bowel control. I had never seen him cry until the first time he lost control of his bowels. For him the illness wasn't just an annoyance anymore, it was an embarrassment. Fortunately, there were adult diapers, but that just made him more annoyed and embarrassed.
Despite all this his spirits were good. He had a steady stream of visitors, although he really missed Juanita, who had taken the holidays off to go see her family. For the first time in years he decided he wanted a Christmas tree. Not having a lot of room, we found a little tabletop one that could go on the bar. We planned a Christmas meal of grilled turkey, stuffing, celery gravy and pumpkin pie, and those overly sweet canned yams.
At about this time, December 20th, he said that he was just tired. He wanted to see the World Series and he did; he wanted to see his nephew, and he did; he wanted to see Thanksgiving, and he did; but he wasn't sure he wanted to stick around much longer. He was missing my grandmother, his parents, his childhood friends and thought that he probably didn't have much time left anyway.
When the hospice doctor came to visit, my grandfather asked him for enough pills to take his life.
I was sitting next to him when he said it and it took both the doctor and I for a surprise.
For the next half hour, my grandfather and his doctor talked about why the doctor would not give him the pills. My grandfather understood. But he wanted that control over his life, a chance to end it on his terms. In the end, he decided that he would let nature take its course. If he were alive today and going through this, we probably would have moved to Oregon by now. I don't know.
Dr. S. set up an appointment for the nurse (hopefully Juanita, instead of the Sourpuss, would be the one to do it) to draw blood in early January for the relatively new HIV test, that was supposed to be much more accurate. In the meantime, we decided to enjoy the Christmas holidays, and for the first time in decades, my grandfather had a private visit with the Episcopal chaplin, and had communion. Not that he believed, he said, but it made him feel closer to his parents, who were devout Episcopalians.
Everyone knew the "end was near" as they say. But my grandfather wasn't mourning; we were, but he wasn't. He had lived a great life, and even though it wasn't ending the way he expected (being shot by the jealous husband of a 27 year old blonde) he didn't have regrets. It wasn't his style.
He talked a lot on the phone to his sister, my mother, his nephews, and even old customers from the restaurant. The only real regret he said he had was that he didn't make it to the Subway Series.
After Thanksgiving, my grandfather started to lose weight rapidly. That's the bad news. The good news is that for the first time in almost 70 years he didn't need glasses to read. His glaucoma had actually reshaped his eyes into a perfect 20/20. His opthomologist said she had heard of it, but never seen it. So now Bamps was reading the sports pages and whatever else he could get his hands on, especially if it was by John D. MacDonald or Zane Grey. He was even doing crossword puzzles again, although his tremor made it hard to hold a pencil.
His appetite had simply decreased. He wasn't hungry, except for a childhood favorite of cottage cheese and catsup. (Yeah, gross!) Fortunately he did like the chocolate Ensure, so there was some caloric intake.
It was a very hard time. Hank (my husband) had taken over bathing my grandfather because my grandfather has taken to having modesty attacks. He was also mortified about his lack of bowel control. I had never seen him cry until the first time he lost control of his bowels. For him the illness wasn't just an annoyance anymore, it was an embarrassment. Fortunately, there were adult diapers, but that just made him more annoyed and embarrassed.
Despite all this his spirits were good. He had a steady stream of visitors, although he really missed Juanita, who had taken the holidays off to go see her family. For the first time in years he decided he wanted a Christmas tree. Not having a lot of room, we found a little tabletop one that could go on the bar. We planned a Christmas meal of grilled turkey, stuffing, celery gravy and pumpkin pie, and those overly sweet canned yams.
At about this time, December 20th, he said that he was just tired. He wanted to see the World Series and he did; he wanted to see his nephew, and he did; he wanted to see Thanksgiving, and he did; but he wasn't sure he wanted to stick around much longer. He was missing my grandmother, his parents, his childhood friends and thought that he probably didn't have much time left anyway.
When the hospice doctor came to visit, my grandfather asked him for enough pills to take his life.
I was sitting next to him when he said it and it took both the doctor and I for a surprise.
For the next half hour, my grandfather and his doctor talked about why the doctor would not give him the pills. My grandfather understood. But he wanted that control over his life, a chance to end it on his terms. In the end, he decided that he would let nature take its course. If he were alive today and going through this, we probably would have moved to Oregon by now. I don't know.
Dr. S. set up an appointment for the nurse (hopefully Juanita, instead of the Sourpuss, would be the one to do it) to draw blood in early January for the relatively new HIV test, that was supposed to be much more accurate. In the meantime, we decided to enjoy the Christmas holidays, and for the first time in decades, my grandfather had a private visit with the Episcopal chaplin, and had communion. Not that he believed, he said, but it made him feel closer to his parents, who were devout Episcopalians.
Everyone knew the "end was near" as they say. But my grandfather wasn't mourning; we were, but he wasn't. He had lived a great life, and even though it wasn't ending the way he expected (being shot by the jealous husband of a 27 year old blonde) he didn't have regrets. It wasn't his style.
He talked a lot on the phone to his sister, my mother, his nephews, and even old customers from the restaurant. The only real regret he said he had was that he didn't make it to the Subway Series.
