I drove up to Oklahoma Thursday to be with Mom during her swallow test, but she was taken in early. When I arrived at 10:05, she was already back in the van, ready to be taken to the nursing home again.
Since I didn't want to just turn around and drive back 2 1/2 hours through traffic and flat, flat land, I spent most of the day at local coffeehouse. I fiddled around online, did some editing and writing. It was a lovely break; a calm, normal day which has started to look really good.
Then I got a call from the company which owns the nursing home on my way back to Dallas.
Kim, the administrator, asked for permission to evaluate Mom for hospice. I said sure, thinking they'd do it later Friday. She was evaluated and approved before my drive was finished. So as of Friday, April 17th, Mom transitioned to hospice care.
According to Kim and our call, there are two sorts of hospice. The first results from a single disease, and a life expectancy timeline (such a civilized phrase!) of 6 months is given. The second, the person has a list of diseases (all of which could justify being on hospice), but there's no range of expectation. With the second, most either pass in a few days or live longer than the six months.
Either way, after the paperwork was signed, she's on hospice for as long as she lives.
I clung to shock for as long as I could that night, as driving through construction on a major interstate and dry heave crying aren't a good look. It didn't last long enough.
Due to the difference between state laws, I had to get an updated POA to have on file; without it, the DNRs I signed the week before would be void. And since the law requires Mom sign her own POA, we needed to get it done sooner rather than later.
A friend with an uncanny ability to find things located a form online for almost free. So I got up, dressed, and went down to the local FedEx office. What was a 16 page document hacked down to 10 since Mom (thankfully) lives a relatively small, quiet life.
Stopped in at Starbucks on the way out of town, I then gassed up, and drove from Dallas straight to the nursing home. Mom was awake and signed the form, despite her pretty fingers trembling and forgetting to sign her first name first.
While she struggled, I used my recently developed Mommy tone with her, asking she wait. I turned the paper on an angle to match her partial signature, but it didn't help overly much. Her once light, loopy signature hunkered on the paper like a jagged mountain range.
Kay, the nurse from hospice, stepped into Mom's room a few minutes after 2. My voice growled just this side of civil at her soft greeting, which distracted Mom, leaving her staring off blankly at the wall near her bed.
I asked if I could find her in a few minutes, that we needed to get the POA signed and turned in for records. She smiled, nodded, and I finished fighting for a few more letters.
Wandering to the front desk, I asked after two witnesses to sign the form, and where Kay might be. An older gentleman signed as a witness my signature looks nothing like my mother's, and Kay appeared to sign as the second.
We sat at a table to work through a stack of paper. The DNRs lay on the top of the pile, followed by forms outlining all the tests, possible diagnoses, all Mom's known medical history for the last three years. Professional and kind, Kay shared her dad has Alzheimer's. I smiled wryly, and said it would be helpful if that had been Mom's diagnosis, too.
We spent two hours talking about what had been taken, what had returned, what might slip away. Kay was shocked as we went through all the ways WMD looks like something so familiar - a stroke, Alzheimer's, , but just isn't.
She shared, too, the qualifiers for hospice changed recently, too. Hospice no longer implies a death knell the way it has in the past; now, the focus tends more towards pain management and specialized care. There's a great, small comfort in that, as I internalized it Mom doesn't have an expiration date.
After we talked, I walked Kay to Mom's room. I introduced them, and explained to Mom she wasn't expected to die soon. She looked relieved, and exhaled. I left Kay taking Mom's vitals, talking to her in that soothingly capable voice.
Since I didn't want to just turn around and drive back 2 1/2 hours through traffic and flat, flat land, I spent most of the day at local coffeehouse. I fiddled around online, did some editing and writing. It was a lovely break; a calm, normal day which has started to look really good.
Then I got a call from the company which owns the nursing home on my way back to Dallas.
Kim, the administrator, asked for permission to evaluate Mom for hospice. I said sure, thinking they'd do it later Friday. She was evaluated and approved before my drive was finished. So as of Friday, April 17th, Mom transitioned to hospice care.
According to Kim and our call, there are two sorts of hospice. The first results from a single disease, and a life expectancy timeline (such a civilized phrase!) of 6 months is given. The second, the person has a list of diseases (all of which could justify being on hospice), but there's no range of expectation. With the second, most either pass in a few days or live longer than the six months.
Either way, after the paperwork was signed, she's on hospice for as long as she lives.
I clung to shock for as long as I could that night, as driving through construction on a major interstate and dry heave crying aren't a good look. It didn't last long enough.
Due to the difference between state laws, I had to get an updated POA to have on file; without it, the DNRs I signed the week before would be void. And since the law requires Mom sign her own POA, we needed to get it done sooner rather than later.
A friend with an uncanny ability to find things located a form online for almost free. So I got up, dressed, and went down to the local FedEx office. What was a 16 page document hacked down to 10 since Mom (thankfully) lives a relatively small, quiet life.
Stopped in at Starbucks on the way out of town, I then gassed up, and drove from Dallas straight to the nursing home. Mom was awake and signed the form, despite her pretty fingers trembling and forgetting to sign her first name first.
While she struggled, I used my recently developed Mommy tone with her, asking she wait. I turned the paper on an angle to match her partial signature, but it didn't help overly much. Her once light, loopy signature hunkered on the paper like a jagged mountain range.
Kay, the nurse from hospice, stepped into Mom's room a few minutes after 2. My voice growled just this side of civil at her soft greeting, which distracted Mom, leaving her staring off blankly at the wall near her bed.
I asked if I could find her in a few minutes, that we needed to get the POA signed and turned in for records. She smiled, nodded, and I finished fighting for a few more letters.
Wandering to the front desk, I asked after two witnesses to sign the form, and where Kay might be. An older gentleman signed as a witness my signature looks nothing like my mother's, and Kay appeared to sign as the second.
We sat at a table to work through a stack of paper. The DNRs lay on the top of the pile, followed by forms outlining all the tests, possible diagnoses, all Mom's known medical history for the last three years. Professional and kind, Kay shared her dad has Alzheimer's. I smiled wryly, and said it would be helpful if that had been Mom's diagnosis, too.
We spent two hours talking about what had been taken, what had returned, what might slip away. Kay was shocked as we went through all the ways WMD looks like something so familiar - a stroke, Alzheimer's, , but just isn't.
She shared, too, the qualifiers for hospice changed recently, too. Hospice no longer implies a death knell the way it has in the past; now, the focus tends more towards pain management and specialized care. There's a great, small comfort in that, as I internalized it Mom doesn't have an expiration date.
After we talked, I walked Kay to Mom's room. I introduced them, and explained to Mom she wasn't expected to die soon. She looked relieved, and exhaled. I left Kay taking Mom's vitals, talking to her in that soothingly capable voice.
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