Turbo cancer: Day 174 - December 2, 2022
The New Bed
On this day, last year, I wrote:
I can’t believe it was only two days ago that we decided it was time for hospice. I called our palliative care nurse, and it all happened like magic. Still, these two days feel like two years. Thank God for everyone who has helped with this insane transition.
My mom now has a nurse, who will visit twice a week, as well as an aide, who will come to bathe her, and freshen her up. They are both wonderful. She also has Melissa, her palliative care nurse, who will continue on as her hospice case worker. Also, she has better drugs and a better bed and she is beginning to be comfortable.
Granddaughter Margaret decided to come from Iowa and to stay a few days. My mom is so happy that she is here. My mom needs a lot of emotional support and spiritual comfort right now. Margaret’s presence provides both.
The transition to hospice had been a whirlwind.
Once the decision was made, almost immediately, the nurses were alerted and the supplies were ordered. Boxes filled with medicine, bandages and bed pads arrived. An oxygen tank was delivered, and arrangements were made for a hospital bed.
There were several obstacles, needing to be overcome when it came to the hospital bed. My mom had told me, repeatedly, that she wanted to stay in her own room. She wanted to be in her bedroom when she dies.
The problem was that most of the space in her room was taken up by one gigantic, heavy, king size, oak, sleigh bed.
In order to honor my mom’s wishes and allow her to stay where she wanted to be, we needed to put the hospital bed in her room. To do this, we had to move her bed out.
However, my mom was stuck in her bed, completely immobilized. In order to accomplish the exchange, my mom was going to have to move.
She loved her oak bed. It was one of her few prized possessions. It had been in her room since as far back as I can remember. It was always cozy, with large pillows, soft, clean sheets and warm, handmade quilts.
She didn’t want to give it up, but she was deteriorating quickly. She no longer had any strength. She could move her arms, but she could not move her body. She was in bed, lying on a folded sheet. To get her away from the edge of the mattress, I had to crawl onto the bed and take hold of the sheet. While on my knees, I would pull it, and my mom, toward the center of the bed.
My back muscles were complaining, telling me that this was not a sustainable strategy.
Caring for her had suddenly become impossible without the mechanical features that a medical-grade bed would provide.
In order to get the hospital bed into the room, we had to get the sleigh bed out. The only way that that would happen would be for my mom to sit in her chair. She would have to stay there till one bed was disassembled and removed, and then the other one was brought upstairs and assembled.
The pain emanating from her spine was intense. I worried about the consequences of moving her to the chair, and then sitting her in the chair for an extended period of time. I didn’t think that she would be able to tolerate it.
In my mind, it was going to take hours. I was certain that the pain would become unbearable. I was wringing my hands with worry. It all seemed insurmountable.
I had been up all night. I felt anxious and obsessed. I was having flashbacks of my mom, curled up in her chair, shuddering with pain. I seemed reasonable to assume that a similar episode was likely to occur while we waited for the beds to be exchanged.
I was imagining the worst. The absolute worst.
However, as I was being taught, in moments of true desperation , God sends angels.
My adult son, Elijah, has had a lifelong friend named Taua.
On this day, last year, Taua, his three brothers, and my three boys gathered together at my mom’s house.
My husband arrived soon after, with boxes of bagels and gallons of orange juice.
While we waited for the delivery truck, the boys sat, talked and ate.
The house was suddenly filled with the boisterous conversation and hearty laughter of young men who are anticipating physical labor.
As soon as the truck pulled up, they went to work.
I helped my mom to get out of bed and onto the chair.
The boys marched into the room with screwdrivers and socket wrenches in hand. They spread out to the four corners and lay down on the floor, their face close to the ground. They peered under the bed. They began removing the hardware. They easily comprehended the design, and had the whole thing disassembled and gone within ten minutes. It was amazing to watch them work, like a team of intuitive ants, each knowing his role in the operation.
Next, they helped the delivery men carry the heavy metal motor and bars that would soon become the hospital bed. With the aid of our young men, it was assembled and functioning within minutes.
My mom and I sat, mesmerized, watching them work. It was as if we had been in a theater, and they had been performing a choreographed dance. Not one member of the team faltered. Not one movement was out of place.
In under twenty minutes, my mom was sitting comfortably in her new hospital bed, happily eating a bagel. They had accomplished the miraculous.
The bed had an air mattress that eliminated all of the pressure on her spine. With the push of a button my mom could go from lying down to sitting up. The bed could be raised and lowered, to assist with caregiving.
I suddenly noticed that this group of boys, whom I had known as young children, had grown into men. They were glowing. They had selflessly reached out, to ease the burden of another. They had expected nothing in return.
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"I suddenly noticed that this group of boys, whom I had known as young children, had grown into men. They were glowing. They had selflessly reached out, to ease the burden of another. They had expected nothing in return."
They did the Lord's work. Very moving, especially on the 4th of July.
Thank you, Kristi, for that.
As my dad would say, “Sometimes you just need a chap”… or seven.