The thing about dying is that it’s a matter of health.
My dad arrived at our home following a hospital stay during the peak of COVID regulations. We could not see him during the stay, and we were harassed by the nursing staff for calling daily. We did not find out until after he arrived and we reviewed the discharge papers that he nearly died there. It’s a long story involving his care and I’m saving it for a very well put letter to the hospital authorities once I’m no longer seething over it.
He arrived with the appearance of death hanging over him. I summoned the siblings and let them know we were on short time. Then my husband and I set about the act of nursing him and caretaking his property. That was 7 weeks ago.
He had pre-qualified for hospice before the hospital, but had refused to accept a terminal diagnosis, so had settled for home health. We didn’t know this until we asked about getting some medical equipment.
Now he is in hospice, safely ensconced in a hospital bed in his new ‘bedroom’ which was once our living room. We’ve changed up our furnishings and set up his desk and PC in the spare bedroom and handed off our main bathroom for his needs.
He’s gone from near death to being nutritionally balanced and hydrated. Before the hospital visit, he had lost track of doing the basics – proper food and fluid intake, taking his meds timely – and was not in a healthy environment as he had fired the housekeepers that I hired to take care of his house.
He can’t fire me, he’s stuck. Hubby and I have become the groundskeepers, nursing aides, financial advisors, chefs and housekeepers, with other duties as assigned. We do have some family assistance as well.
Death is still looming, but it has been delayed. There will be quality first, health. The mental health has vastly improved with the improved physical nutrients. Now it’s up to the disease. Poor health conditions are no longer driving this bus.
It appears that we will have a resident here for a while.