With the trial behind me, I feel like I can breathe a little easier now. These last few days since court have shown me just how much the trial burdened my mind and heart as now that it is over I feel as though a great weight has been lifted.
While preparing for the trial, I requested all of my grandparent’s medical records from the nursing home. Prior to needing the records for the trial, I had not given any thought to asking for such. I figured that since I am there basically every day, I already know whatever there is to know.
As soon as I got home, I grabbed a highlighter and pen, ran upstairs, and plopped on my bed with the pile of records. Most of the information contained in the notes was of no surprise. The nurses and doctors had been very consistent in communicating updates on their condition to me from the beginning, or so I thought.
Let me back up just a bit…When James passed away on November 24th, I was shocked! I had just been there that morning. While he seemed a little weaker than normal, I knew that he was having some tummy issues and chalked it up to the expected discomfort related to that.
I rushed to the nursing home and urgently pressed the first nurse I saw with my perplexing question...How did this happen? Now, don’t get me wrong. James was 87 years old and had lived his last 4 months in peace, comfort, and dignity. I wouldn’t have changed any treatment options to prolong his life and, as difficult as it was, had even signed a DNR. However, the response to my question was, “Jeannie, he had been declining for days.” As though I had missed a segment in a lifetime movie, I was very lost and confused. A few days later, I approached the staff about this comment about his decline and was then told that, in fact, he had not been declining and that they were all as shocked as I was. Somehow, I felt better about this and was satisfied that this was a simple miscommunication... that no one saw his death coming.
Why does it matter? The day James died, we were headed out of town for Thanksgiving. I had struggled, excruciatingly so, perhaps maybe even obsessed a little, with making plans to be away from my grandparents for fear of something just like this happening. In fact, the morning I last visited James, I informed the nurses that I would be leaving town that afternoon but certainly always available by cell. I had even hired a private duty attendant to visit them in my absence and report to me their status. I felt like a robin leaving the nest for the first time. Nothing was said to indicate any concerns about them or my leaving. We got an hour and a half down the road when I was called about James’ passing. Had I known he was declining at all, I would have never left town. I would have been there with him and with Etta. I would have said good-bye. Instead, Etta had to witness James’ last breath alone. She had to feel the sting of this pain without me until I could get there. I felt paralyzed. Time stood still as we turned our car around to drive back. I will never forget the overwhelming sick feeling I had in those moments.
Ultimately, the medical records revealed that James had indeed been declining for about a week prior to his death. The only thing I knew about any health issues was that he had been having bowel issues and was being treated accordingly. I have since learned, in great detail, there was more going on.
In fact, on November 22nd, the progress notes indicated that the nurse would consult with the doctor about his decline. And yet, not a word was mentioned to me as I visited each of those days.
I can’t change the past. I don’t want to point fingers at anyone. I can appreciate the demanding job that these nurses face working in such a facility and with such a population. However, I have made it clear, hopefully crystal clear, that I do expect that this obvious lapse in communication will not be repeated. My expectation to be informed of changes in my grandmother’s health or behaviors is reasonable and even a commitment the facility proudly makes to families. I don’t want to read later that Etta was hysterical on Monday night for two hours when I could have been there to help comfort her. Or, as she does face her final days, that I don’t know exactly what’s going on. I never want to be left in the dark…the way I was when my uncle cared for her…the way I was as James neared death. While don’t like to think about Etta’s passing, I know the day will come. Each time these thoughts come to mind, I beg God to orchestrate those moments to include me. I can’t bear the thought of her being alone or selfishly, the thought of not saying good-bye to her. As such, I remind her everyday just how much I love her and the reasons why. I look her right in the eyes and express this to her each time I depart because I never know when her last day will come. When that day does come, I will have a peace in knowing she undoubtedly knew the incredible place she always occupied in my heart and that her spirited and loving ways live on through me.
While preparing for the trial, I requested all of my grandparent’s medical records from the nursing home. Prior to needing the records for the trial, I had not given any thought to asking for such. I figured that since I am there basically every day, I already know whatever there is to know.
As soon as I got home, I grabbed a highlighter and pen, ran upstairs, and plopped on my bed with the pile of records. Most of the information contained in the notes was of no surprise. The nurses and doctors had been very consistent in communicating updates on their condition to me from the beginning, or so I thought.
Let me back up just a bit…When James passed away on November 24th, I was shocked! I had just been there that morning. While he seemed a little weaker than normal, I knew that he was having some tummy issues and chalked it up to the expected discomfort related to that.
I rushed to the nursing home and urgently pressed the first nurse I saw with my perplexing question...How did this happen? Now, don’t get me wrong. James was 87 years old and had lived his last 4 months in peace, comfort, and dignity. I wouldn’t have changed any treatment options to prolong his life and, as difficult as it was, had even signed a DNR. However, the response to my question was, “Jeannie, he had been declining for days.” As though I had missed a segment in a lifetime movie, I was very lost and confused. A few days later, I approached the staff about this comment about his decline and was then told that, in fact, he had not been declining and that they were all as shocked as I was. Somehow, I felt better about this and was satisfied that this was a simple miscommunication... that no one saw his death coming.
Why does it matter? The day James died, we were headed out of town for Thanksgiving. I had struggled, excruciatingly so, perhaps maybe even obsessed a little, with making plans to be away from my grandparents for fear of something just like this happening. In fact, the morning I last visited James, I informed the nurses that I would be leaving town that afternoon but certainly always available by cell. I had even hired a private duty attendant to visit them in my absence and report to me their status. I felt like a robin leaving the nest for the first time. Nothing was said to indicate any concerns about them or my leaving. We got an hour and a half down the road when I was called about James’ passing. Had I known he was declining at all, I would have never left town. I would have been there with him and with Etta. I would have said good-bye. Instead, Etta had to witness James’ last breath alone. She had to feel the sting of this pain without me until I could get there. I felt paralyzed. Time stood still as we turned our car around to drive back. I will never forget the overwhelming sick feeling I had in those moments.
Ultimately, the medical records revealed that James had indeed been declining for about a week prior to his death. The only thing I knew about any health issues was that he had been having bowel issues and was being treated accordingly. I have since learned, in great detail, there was more going on.
In fact, on November 22nd, the progress notes indicated that the nurse would consult with the doctor about his decline. And yet, not a word was mentioned to me as I visited each of those days.
I can’t change the past. I don’t want to point fingers at anyone. I can appreciate the demanding job that these nurses face working in such a facility and with such a population. However, I have made it clear, hopefully crystal clear, that I do expect that this obvious lapse in communication will not be repeated. My expectation to be informed of changes in my grandmother’s health or behaviors is reasonable and even a commitment the facility proudly makes to families. I don’t want to read later that Etta was hysterical on Monday night for two hours when I could have been there to help comfort her. Or, as she does face her final days, that I don’t know exactly what’s going on. I never want to be left in the dark…the way I was when my uncle cared for her…the way I was as James neared death. While don’t like to think about Etta’s passing, I know the day will come. Each time these thoughts come to mind, I beg God to orchestrate those moments to include me. I can’t bear the thought of her being alone or selfishly, the thought of not saying good-bye to her. As such, I remind her everyday just how much I love her and the reasons why. I look her right in the eyes and express this to her each time I depart because I never know when her last day will come. When that day does come, I will have a peace in knowing she undoubtedly knew the incredible place she always occupied in my heart and that her spirited and loving ways live on through me.