Dad called me to ask for help. Well, it was more of a plea. "Baby, you've got to help me" He said it over and over and over.
Dad was at the V.A. hospital when the doctor's delivered the news that there was nothing more they could do to treat his cancer.
He stopped eating. He refused to talk to them or anyone else. He wouldn't answer his phone.
They panicked.
Finally Hospice stepped in and removed him from the hospital and brought him to #HospicebytheSea. He called them angels.
David and I flew down. Even though his prognosis was grim, they were pleased he was eating again and seemed in good spirits. He truly loved it there, and I suspect they enjoyed having Dad there because they finally had a patient who was conscious and eating so they fed him constantly. Anything he wanted, they were happy to make. His room had a constant influx of chef's and orderly's. There was always food in his room, and I do mean always. Many of the male orderlys sat with him and had their lunch with him and watched tv with him (lots of football of course!) One chef asked Dad if he liked milkshakes. Well, I think everyone in my family has a vicious sweet tooth, so of course Dad said "Chocolate".
As a result of putting on weight, he was told that he was improving and could not stay in an end care facility. I even asked the director if I paid for his stay outside of Medicare, if he could stay on? She was kind but alas, there was nothing she could do.
Dad was sent back to the Rehabilitation Center that he was staying at before the hospital stay. He never got that Chocolate shake. The day he was supposed to get it was the very morning he was shipped back to the Rehab place.
Fast forward ahead around a month and that's when I got that call from Dad.
"Baby, you've got to help me". He said it so many times over and over that I lost my temper. I was trying to explain to him that I would be coming down asap and that he need to be patient but he wasn't listening. He was crying. My heart broke. Why wasn't he listening to me?
David and I flew down and as I walked into his room, two things happened. First, I had to immediately walk back out. I was in shock and needed to get my bearings. Dad looked worse than when he was taken to Hospice. His weight was so low that I barely recognized him. Second, he was so weak he had his phone on the pillow next to him while he tried to carry on a conversation with my brother John. It was impossible since he couldn't hear what John was saying, so he constantly repeated himself.
Now I understood why he never heard me a few days earlier. I'm so sorry Dad.
I immediately made plans to bring him home. He wanted that more than anything. He hated that Rehab place and for good reason.
They stole some of his clothes. I had purchased a silk 'wounded warrior project' shirt that he absolutely loved that went missing. As well as some Jets items.
They ignored him. The very next day when Hospice came in to bring him home, they found silverware under him that had fallen while he had tried to eat. A fork laid on the mattress directly under him. God only knows how long it had been there and he had to lay on it.
If Dad did not or could not get out of bed, they simply never changed the sheets. They dropped off his food tray and picked it up without checking to see if he had eaten. All the things they told me that they would do (like check to see that he was eating) they never did.
Yes, I tried speaking with the very same people who only a few weeks before, were more than willing to wait to speak to me about making sure Dad's bill was going to be paid on time and that I had to open a spending account for Dad while he was there in case he wanted something not included with the already exorbitant cost of him staying there, like a Coke. Now suddenly they were all in meetings and could not discuss Dad's care. His spending account? We'll get back to you about that.
Cowards.
But that is not what this story is about. I called Hospice by the Sea. The Director remembered Dad and had someone out to the Rehab place within the hour and once they went over Dad's charts, they sat me down and said they would take care of bringing him home. They weren't kidding.
Dad made it home. Hospice had everything, and I mean EVERYTHING set up and Dad home and settled in, in less than 48 hours. They really were angels.
Dad had a physical by a Hospice doctor upon arrival and a dedicated nurse that would stop by a least once a week and on call if needed. He was end stage. I had already set up a Nurse's Aide for 24 hour care. It had been decided that I would stay on. I was glad I did.
Dad's first request?.....yep.....A Chocolate Shake.
Dad's Aide protested. She said that we shouldn't feed his cancer. Sugar feeds cancer. She was informed, again, that Dad was end stage but she protested and said that we were not being responsible about his health. She was suggesting a radically strict diet with tons of fiber, lean meat and healthy vegetables. Uh, did you not hear the doctor? He said that Dad would be very limited in what he would want to eat now. Because of that, if he requested something specific to eat, then by all means, do what was necessary to fulfill that request.
She still insisted that if we put him on 'her' diet, he would be up and about within a few weeks. The man could hardly chew, didn't want to chew really, but she knew best because she only shopped at Whole Foods and it had changed her life.
Ok....not that she deserved a response but my 'cockles' had been raised. After going through the laundry list of what this man had endured over the last 6 to 12 months alone and that she had JUST met him and knew nothing about him and that she was specifically going against a MEDICAL doctor in diagnosis, I then proceeded to inform her that if Dad had requested a damned lap dance from Kim Kardashian while eating 100 candy bars off of her sister's Chloe's butt then I would have obliged! Like done, done and DONE!
So needless to say, about an hour later David and Dad enjoyed a thick Chocolate Shake together...minus the Kardashians.
Dad smiled the whole time.