Turbo Cancer: Day 168 - November 26, 2022
Angels Everywhere
On this day, last year, it was clear that my mom was getting closer to God. There were angels everywhere.
Two of them knocked on the door.
In the morning, the new palliative care nurse arrived. He was was a huge Nigerian man with a booming voice. He was at least six-and-a-half feet tall with a big, broad chest and huge shoulders.
My mom was sitting in her chair. When I saw him, I was worried that he wouldn’t fit in the small space between her and the wall. I told him about my concern. He laughed and said: “You would be surprised to see the tiny spaces where I have worked. I can make myself fit anywhere.”
I cannot remember the name of that big man. What I can remember is his hearty laugh and his jovial spirit. He was kind to my mom. He talked to her, asked questions, was attentive, said sweet things, and made her smile.
While he worked, he spoke, with pride, about his wife and his children. It was his wife’s birthday and he was planning a big meal for the whole family. He told my mom that, when she was feeling better, he would come over and cook for her, too.
She said that she was looking forward to it.
His job was to hook my mom up to her portable wound vac. He did this very gently and efficiently. He then instructed me on maintaining the vac, switching out the collection container, and caring for her wound.
After he left, our new palliative care nurse, Melissa, arrived. Of all of the people whom I met in the medical field, Melissa and her team were, by far, the best.
Melissa was a tough looking lady. She was short, stout and strong. She had her hair cut short and wore a white coat, scrubs, mask, glasses and sensible walking shoes. She was her team’s leader and she was specially trained to titrate pain medication doses for terminally ill patients.
She was a stereotypical, no-nonsense midwestern American woman. She was straightforward and honest. I liked her and I respected her.
When she met my mom, she was shocked that we were not already receiving palliative care. I explained that it had been ordered, but that we had never been sent an actual nurse.
I told her that my mom’s condition had declined rapidly while she was in the hospital. I told her that, up until then, we had been able to manage.
She said: “It sounds like I arrived at the perfect time.”
I agreed.
She talked to my mom about pain. She asked if the Fentanyl patch, in addition to the Oxy, had been helping.
I was confused by the question. I interrupted: “Did you say: “In addition to the Oxy?” The doctor at the hospital replaced the Oxy with the Fentanyl. He said not to take it anymore.”
She looked confused and concerned. With alarm in her voice, she asked: “Why would they do that? Your mom needs to be weaned off of the Oxy while the Fentanyl is building up in her system. It is no wonder that she is in so much pain right now.”
As my mom had escaped the hospital, one final act of cruelty had been committed against her. The discharge doctor had instructed her to suddenly stop the narcotic to which the medical system had caused her to become addicted. She had gotten home and gone cold-turkey, without any nurses or machines to monitor her breathing.
Because we, like most people, were not experts on safe opioid use, we assumed that the man in the withe coat had known what he was talking about.
Is it possible that all of the doctors who worked with my mom were actually as incompetent as they appeared to be? If the answer is yes, they do not have the skills or knowledge necessary to care for our health. If the answer is no, they are murderous and evil.
Either way, they cannot be trusted.
Melissa sat down and looked at my mom’s chart. Her forehead wrinkled while she wrote a series of numbers and formulas.
She said: “Well, it says that, in the hospital, you reported pain relief after the Fentanyl patch was applied. Is that accurate?”
My clever mom replied: “No, not exactly. I lied about that. I just wanted to go home.”
Melissa and I both laughed, and my mom flashed a tiny, mischievous smile. Melissa said, “I am happy that you got yourself home, but that doesn’t help me much with your dosage.”
Melissa put my mom back on Oxy and kept her on the same-dose Fentanyl patch. She talked to us about the benefits of hospice care compared to palliative care.
Melissa explained that, with hospice, there are no more appointments. There are no more tests or procedures or treatments. Instead, the nurses come to the home, providing pain relief and comfort to the patient.
If my mom chose hospice, a hospital bed and all necessary medical supplies would be delivered. We would have nurses on call twenty-four hours a day. Prescriptions would be brought to the house on the day that they were ordered.
She also told us that it could be temporary. She explained that a patient could switch between hospice and palliative care. She said that some people stay on for a few weeks, and then, with renewed strength, they return to treatment.
My mom said that she wasn’t quite ready to make that decision.
The plan was to give the new combination of medicines for forty-eight hours. Melissa would then return to assess my mom’s condition and to titrate the doses.
Those who comfort the dying work closely with God.
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Your mom made the right decision, and that decision was rewarded by God through the hands of his people, the ones who care.
My father’s hospice team were angels. Beautiful wonderful team. 💙