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I still find myself talking about him in the present tense, so pardon me if that occurs in this post.
My father was diagnosed with HIV in 1992. He had made out a Living Will and a Health Care Proxy, but when he was taken to the hospital back in June with severely high calcium levels, they didn't have his Living Will at that hospital. He had refused several diagnostic imaging procedures for many years, because his quality of life had decreased so badly as his virus developed resistance to the drugs -- the last medication he was on was Fuzeon, which he had to inject into himself every day -- that he told me he had wished he lived in Oregon.
They weren't able to get in touch with me for 24 hours and the calcium levels had altered his mental status enough that they could not rely on his spoken statements that he knew he was dying and did not want treatment. His veins were so poor that he has had a subclavian port for many years, but they said they couldn't access it and gave him another central line, and had to draw blood from him several times. They did a full diagnostic workup.
When they finally were able to contact me, they had determined that he had a liver tumor the size of a newborn baby's head, and a lung tumor. They'd given him shots of a drug called Aredia, which should lower his calcium levels, but they asked me if I wanted them to aggressively treat his calcium imbalance. I said "Can you access his port?" "No." "Do you think it is in his best interest to get another put in?" "Honestly, no, he might not survive surgery." "Then my father does not want another needle going in him that is not giving him pain medication, it hurts him too badly -- and if my father can't express that he's in pain, he wants to be treated as though he's in the worst pain imaginable."
"Well, that is a what he said, but he is so badly confused that we couldn't rely just on that. Now, you are aware that if we don't treat his calcium levels his heart may stop?"
"I think he'd rather die of a heart attack with pain medication than a long slow death from liver cancer, and he would be very upset if you brought him back. He has requested DNR status at every hospital he has been to."
"That's what we needed to know. Thank you. We'd like you to speak to our palliative care nurse..."
We arranged for him to be admitted to hospice.
Two days later the Aredia had done its thing and he didn't die of a heart attack during that time.
Even though I knew I had went by what he had written down he wanted, when I was able to talk to him I asked him if I did what he wanted. He told me I had.
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Because the Aredia had a three-week duration of action, that gave me a timetable to plan by, and I was able to travel to North Carolina and be with him while he was mentally himself before he went into his final decline. (A dear friend of mine who is like a second mother to me came with me -- my mother had divorced him 25 years ago and is remarried.) The hospice was absolutely wonderful to him. They had good food, and when he was hungry for something that wasn't hospital food, we were able to get it for him. They had two night male nurses that Dad talked to quite a bit during his month long stay, who were very friendly toward him. He was able to smoke his cigarettes out on his back patio and look out at the woods. He had a morphine pump, and they let him control his own pain.
They also did not treat him as though he was less than a person because he had made bad choices in his life -- I had a long talk with his doctor while I was here in Arkansas, when he was first admitted. I told her that I knew he had a drug problem, but that in my opinion it shouldn't matter at this point and I would be incredibly upset if he was not given adequate pain control, and that I knew he would rather them give him too much than too little and agreed with him completely on it. She seemed actually shocked that I thought they might not treat his pain because of his behavior in the past, but because it had happened so many times in the past I was determined to make sure it didn't happen again to him.
When the hallucinations came, they were peaceful ones mostly -- he was seeing deer in those woods that weren't there, and rabbits, and a cat.
Because during one hospitalization many years ago he had been given a dose of Haldol as a sleeping pill years ago instead of a more normal sedative -- he had a drug problem and they were even refusing him pain medication at this time because they didn't want to be seen as "feeding an addiction". He had a very severe reaction to it back then -- incredibly bad muscular spasms -- and when I saw it was commonly given in hospice to treat altered mental status, I let them know that I was okay with the hallucinations as long as they were pleasant ones. He wasn't disturbed by them, so the doctors and nurses agreed. When he had to be sedated to some degree because he was too weak to get out of bed and too out of his head to realize it, they gave him Ativan, and said they would switch to Phenobarbital if it became necessary.
When he became too weak to hit the pump for himself but was able to say he wanted a dose, they let me hit the pain pump for him. And when he became unconscious, they said that if we thought he appeared to be in pain, we were allowed to hit the button, or if he started coughing hard. So we slept in shifts, and followed his wishes. If he grimaced or drew up his legs like he would before when he was in pain, or when he did start coughing extremely hard, we pushed the button. He spiked a fever, and was administered Tylenol to bring it down -- he'd already said he didn't want antibiotics.
I wasn't the only one who had tears in my eyes when they used the stethoscope to listen to his heart and said it had stopped -- the nurse who was listening had them in her eyes as well.
It was the hardest experience in my life thus far. He was only 49.
If I ever win the lottery, that hospice is on my list of places that will be getting donations. At the top of it right now, actually.
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