Sunday, July 18, 2010

Momento Mori

“She has changed a lot since the last time I saw her.”

For some reason, Linda’s words immediately threw me off balance. I have been listening to quite a few medical professionals coldly discuss Mother’s condition for the past two weeks, but this aide’s words struck a discordant chord with me. It then suddenly dawned on me as I looked again at Mother …

I have been in denial. Or, at least, in part.

That’s alright isn’t it? I am her son, after all. No one would expect me to see all the changes coming to Mother clearly; I’m not an objective observer. And … no … I am not so blind I haven’t recognized the changes of recent months ~ I’m not completely shut off from reality.

But, there was something so simple, honest, and unaligned about her words that made me stop for a moment and think; in the end, it seems hers was the one authentic voice I needed that allowed me to confront the truth that Mother’s life is surely fading away.
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Mother has been under the care of hospice for almost two years. During the intervening time, we have all witnessed many horrific changes that have come to her. My response to anyone who asks is that Mom continues on a downward physical spiral but that we do enjoy even the increasingly transitory benefits of “ups” that come (with downs) along the way. We all try to take every measure of joy from these good moments while simultaneously maintaining a firm grasp on a realistic understanding of her condition as well as her prospects for longevity.

Time is not on her side

Over the twenty months or so since Mother was introduced to hospice, our family has been informed by care providers that her death has been imminent no less than two times ~ perhaps three. Every time these pronouncements have been made, family members were left to struggle with an impending “reality” which has long been “assured.” To date, each of these prognostications has been proven false and wantonly premature.

How does this happen?

“Hospice kept talking about the quality of my father’s life. My father, even though he was not able to walk around and talk to people, certainly got a huge grin on his face whenever he saw my children,” the woman said. “And that was a couple times a week. He still had joy in his life, and who had the right to take that away?”

This represents but one woman’s final account of her father’s death; suffering with Parkinson’s for many years, he died after only thirteen days in Hospice.

Since the Hospice movement first made inroads within the United States during the 1970’s, these organizations have faithfully served more than a million patients at the end of their lives by providing a wide range of services which include the management of pain and physical symptoms as well as psycho-social concerns.

Unlike this woman, many families who have previously engaged hospice would gladly sing the praises of their personal experiences ~ especially as they related to hospice helping them with difficult circumstances when traditional medical practices seemed to fail them. But, since the 2005 controversial, court-imposed starving death of Terri Schiavo, reports have increased dramatically speaking to the alarming growth of a very dark side of the hospice movement known as “terminal sedation.”
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Stephen Connor, Vice President of Research and International Affairs for the National Hospice and Palliative Care Organization, is on the record stating, “Hospice neither seeks to hasten nor prolong dying.” “Any family engaging the services of Hospice needs to know, from the onset, who is in charge, what protocols are routinely followed, and where a particular group stands on the important issues of food, fluid, and the practice of ‘terminal sedation.’”

Food and Water

Connor stated his organization’s standard for medically administered food and hydration is that “people have a right to decide whether they want those interventions or not. And a decision about whether they should have them or not resides with the patient, usually made in the context of a family system. Families ought to decide if they want it or don’t want it, and those wishes should be respected.”

Mr. Connor also went on to add that hospice does allow for the withdrawal of food and hydration, even when the patient is not in immediate danger of death, keeping in mind that individual hospice programs vary in their policies with regard to medical nutrition and hydration. Some go so far to as not allow patients to have intravenous fluids or feeding tubes, as an example, while others may opt to permit their use.

Former hospice nurse, Ron Panzer, agrees that hospice is “a wonderful service if done with integrity and morality. But since Schiavo’s death in March of 2005, he has heard from an increasingly vocal group of patients, families and caregivers who are raising grave concerns about their hospice care ranging from overmedication to the limitation or refusal of food and water.

Panzer, who now is employed as a home health care nurse, is not alone when stating his belief that hospice groups DO now increasingly engage in the practice of hastening death while fighting almost every attempt to prolong life. “The current tendency is to interfere at almost every step in ordinary care.” “They’ll pull the rug out from under a patient by limiting food, removing adequate hydration and essential medications, as well as refusing to provide treatment for easily treated infections.”

Terminal Sedation

Some bioethicists and physicians have proposed “terminal sedation” as a legal, ethical alternative to assisted suicide and euthanasia.

Terminal sedation is defined as the “deliberate termination of awareness for relief of intractable pain when specific pain-relieving protocols or interventions prove ineffective.” Essential components of terminal sedation also include withdrawal of most, if not all, treatment for medical disorders; limiting fluids and some, if not all, foods ~ all so that death occurs as soon as possible.”

With an alarming reported increase in frequency over the past five years, patients enrolled by Hospice are dying as a result of the implementation of terminal sedation. Cloak the process any way one might choose, but the ugly truth behind terminal sedation is that death is ultimately achieved by circulatory collapse brought about by a lack of adequate hydration.

Mandatory subsistent hydration has long been considered a standing order for critical care physicians who treat the terminally ill; any notion of withholding hydration as the process of death ensues is generally considered unconscionable. In the setting of “terminal sedation,” potent sedatives are also employed to mask the very real symptoms of iatrogenic (induced) suffering brought on by the limitation of fluids, the resultant dehydration, and the inevitable circulatory collapse.

Those who support terminal sedation view this as an “innovative” way of getting around the “sticky” problem of the euthanasia movement’s general inability to convince the voting public and legislatures to enact assisted suicide laws. So, increasingly, terminal sedation is being incorporated into the practices of hospice and other end-of-life programs even though, as pointed out by author Brian Johnston, euthanasia supporters openly admit that “terminal sedation is tantamount to euthanasia or, at least, a “slow” kind of euthanasia.”

It is generally believed that terminal sedation is not a “rarely used option of last resort” as many of its supporters maintain. The current reported prevalence of terminal sedation ranges wildly from 3% to 52% in terminally ill patients. But, when one stops to reflect on the unknown incidence of “terminating awareness” ~ or to put it bluntly, “ensuring unawareness” ~ calculating the use of terminal sedation as a form of “comfort care” may very well be approaching epidemic proportions, even outside the realm of the hospice movement.

It should also be noted that some physicians who otherwise condemn “assisted suicide” actually embrace the notion of terminal sedation as an “ethical alternative.” Dr. Robert Kingsbury, Director of Sister’s of St. Mary Catholic hospice in St. Louis, wrote recently in support of terminal sedation calling it “comforting and critical for patients who are profoundly fearful of terrible suffering at the end of life.” He went further to reject the generally held medical view that withdrawal of food and water results in undue suffering.

To my way of thinking, the evolution of terminal sedation and its incorporation into the practices of hospice proves that proponents of euthanasia are nothing if not creative and persistent. There are many people who are convinced that tolerating even a “little bit of deliberate death” will eventually afford them control at the end of their own lives. But if a growing culture of death is allowed to continue seducing even well-meaning patients, families and medical professionals into making death decisions that are based on the problems of health care cost containment, stressed and overburdened caregivers, as well as fear of suffering or diminished quality of life rather than following the traditional principles of “not causing or hastening death,” we are all ultimately at serious risk of being compassionately rationalized to the notion of death.
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Each of us, unfortunately, has but one final debt to pay for the privilege of living this life; the joy of viewing the beauty of another sunset or the wonder at the moment of the birth of a child each carries with them the seldom considered cost of the death each one of us will eventually owe (momento mori). While none of us is ever guaranteed another moment of life, time and circumstances point to the undeniable fact that Mother’s days are certainly numbered.

The image of that grieving woman’s father who was only capable of smiling a “huge grin” every time he saw his beloved grandchildren haunts me. I choose to believe, as did she, there must have truly been joy at the heart of his smile, even at the very moment a biased observer declared his life to be at an end.

Mother recently looked at my sister and declared no less than three times, “I don’t want to die.” What was my sister to think?

Mother looked at a brother and made a request for the joy of a summer strawberry; when he returned with his store bought harvest of berries, her words and smile spoke volumes, “Ohhh … they are delicious!” What was my brother to think?

Mother looked at me, adjusted my hat and shirt, and then admonished me not to be gone for long because, “I will miss you.” What was I to think?

I’ll tell you.

Hospice does have a place in Mother’s life as she approaches her final days; I whole heartedly welcome the services hospice was initially intended to provide both to Mother and her family. Our situation being as it is, I have absolutely no say in the matter ~ nor would I want the burden of such responsibility. But if I were given an opportunity to simply be heard on the matter of terminal sedation, I would state, unequivocally, I have no use for any organized process that might serve to make a calculated, capricious or dispassionate decision as to Mother's fate.

While it represents simply one son’s opinion, this is where I would choose to draw the line.

Allow Mother all the days or hours she is due. Give everyone, including Mom, the opportunity to enjoy even the smallest wonder each of those days or hours has the potential to bring.

Enjoy the gray-blue intensity of her eyes as they bore into your soul.

Live vicariously as she revels in the simple pleasure of a strawberry ~ not to mention, chocolate.

Sit, listen, and allow yourself to become captivated by her rambling conversations. Then watch the fluid movement of her hands as she sews an invisible dress from her memory of years gone by.

Oh, and lest I forget to mention ...

You don’t want to miss a Mother's smile.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

730 Days

"But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day." (Benjamin Disraeli)
Meaning no disrespect to Mr. Disraeli, my calendar forces me to remember that two years have passed since Mother walked through the doors of the nursing home. Is it possible? 730 days. They came and went without permission; time "truly seems to be the lone thief unchecked by any law." (Napolean I)

Memories come to me, not as streaming videos, but in the form of frozen images ~ like photographs suspended in time. We have all been fortunate to spend considerable time these past two years accumulating cherished images of Mom that may serve to carry us through the difficult days ahead.
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Time alone with Mother is often hard to come by. Invariably, other family members, friends and nursing staff shuffle in and out of her room making demands, small and large, of her time. Every so often the stars seem to align, however, placing each of us in that proverbial “right place and time,” granting an opportunity to be alone with Mom while she is alert and conversant.

One night will probably always stand out for me.

My family had accepted the invitation to eat dinner with our cousins; while I enjoy a good “Taco Tuesday” as much as the next guy, for some inexplicable reason I chose to stay behind with Mom. I will always be happy I did.

After we finished dinner in her room, Mom began a familiar slow boil towards agitation. She wanted her family at her side and, if that didn’t materialize soon, she was sure to voice a well-worn demand for me to immediately take her home. Ultimately, I convinced her not to consider such a move until her other children returned from dinner. In exchange for her cooperation, Mom made but two demands: (1.) Ice Cream, and (2.) Michael Buble’s “new music” had to go.

The iPod was then set to play Barber’s, “Adagio for Strings.”

In an instant, her entire mood changed.

Gone was any sign of agitation or assured talk of walking the hallways to the front door and beyond. Instead, she seemed to settle into the comfort of the bed and began quietly working her tiny hands through processes she had repeated a thousand times over in her former life; without recipe, visible spices or pans, Mom was again cooking dinner for her children who would soon be coming home.

Her hands are much smaller than I remember; while this could be a failure of my memory it is more than likely a physical wasting wrought by time and disease. Regardless, there remains a beauty, strength and fluidity in her movements. As she continued to reach effortlessly into cabinets from some distant past, I am confident she knew exactly where everything was supposed to be. This was ballet.

She was also in the mood to talk.

I am not altogether sure Mom’s eyesight isn’t failing. But she sees plenty. Even if only viewing the memories of her mind’s eye, Mom seems to create threads of conversation based on what she sees and these images apparently drive her thoughts. One need also understand that moments of cogent thought come in waves for Mom, most often mingled with random meanderings. Some days are certainly better than others; these two hours of conversation alone with Mom reduced me to tears more than once.
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She spoke of the many people who are coming her way. She was concerned she might not be able to, “feed and clothe all of them.” When I asked if she knew why they are coming, she replied with a simple, “Yes.”
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As she continued cooking, she noticed that in the midst of the group she could make out the image of her beloved father and, presumably, a dog named “Zippy.” When I asked what her father was doing, she told me that, “he is moving slowly.” While she was genuinely excited about seeing her “Daddy,” there also seemed to be some reticence in her reply.
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When she eventually spoke of my sister, Mom’s face was suddenly relieved of all tension as she smiled a well known smile. Turning her head to me, she then locked her eyes and soul with mine for the first time that evening while stating unequivocally, “I never knew anything about love until my girl came into my life.” “My Jeannie. My beautiful little girl.”
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Thoughts eventually turned again to her father. Only this time she decided to write him a letter; she insisted I find some paper and a pen. Mom hadn’t written her famous daily lists in more than a year, but she took the pad and pen and held them both in her familiar left-handed manner developed over a lifetime. In the end, only the word “Dad” was legible among random threads of scribble, but even that single word resembled nothing of her familiar script. When I asked what she had written, she said, “Daddy. Walk slowly ... I’m not ready.”
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“Will you set me free?” She said it over and over again. Cupping her small right hand to my face, she again engaged my eyes and implored me to set her free. I don’t know what she meant. She has so long begged to go home but home may now hold a very different place in her mind.
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“I want all of my boys to lift me and carry me home.”
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My family eventually returned to the nursing home with the ice cream that had been part of our original bargain. As they each settled in alongside Mother’s bed to eat their sundaes, there was nothing I could do but leave the room. The emotions of the evening had run strong; I was spent.

The last thing she had told me before they entered the room took me to an entirely different place:

“When Daddy comes for me, I want to walk through a field of petunias until I reach the edge. And when we get there, I want to return to the center of the field.”

“Why?” I asked.

She looked at me, again, before answering,

“I will be home.”