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The hospitalist apologized to us for giving the impression that Dad was dying immediately. She can't actually predict. The next fall, the next cold, the next major incident of any kind will kill him, as could the continuing exhaustion of the heart. His hands and feet are cold and mottled. Could be weeks, could be months.
Dad came into the hospital because of a fall and pneumonia and heart troubles. While he was there we discovered that he had moderate-to-severe Alzheimers that Mom had been able to downplay because it had come on day by day. The hospitalist asked me, because I'd seen Dad last fall, what percentage of decline I'd noticed, and she said my face told the story.
We had his implanted defibrillator turned off, because when the heart is at end-stage failure the defibrillator can shock the heart over and over again when the patient is actually dying: pain to no purpose.
He kept asking about death today: whether this was the end, how many centuries had it been, and had eleven died yet. The hospitalist (who was very good, very compassionate, and very straightforward) said that it could be the dementia speaking, but that some of her patients did seem to have a strong and accurate premonition of death. He also spent a lot of time staring blankly into space. When Mom was in the room, his face followed her like a sunflower to the sun.
It's been a hard few days, and probably won't get much easier. Mom is coping with the diminution of a 61-year marriage. Mom is also losing a step or two herself. My brother and I are going to keep as watchful an eye as we can, with frequent check-ins in person.
Adulthood sucks, y'all. Flying home Monday.
e: I told my husband, shamefacedly, that I envied him, because his father had woken up in the night, taken one step, and died. My husband said that I was right.
Dad came into the hospital because of a fall and pneumonia and heart troubles. While he was there we discovered that he had moderate-to-severe Alzheimers that Mom had been able to downplay because it had come on day by day. The hospitalist asked me, because I'd seen Dad last fall, what percentage of decline I'd noticed, and she said my face told the story.
We had his implanted defibrillator turned off, because when the heart is at end-stage failure the defibrillator can shock the heart over and over again when the patient is actually dying: pain to no purpose.
He kept asking about death today: whether this was the end, how many centuries had it been, and had eleven died yet. The hospitalist (who was very good, very compassionate, and very straightforward) said that it could be the dementia speaking, but that some of her patients did seem to have a strong and accurate premonition of death. He also spent a lot of time staring blankly into space. When Mom was in the room, his face followed her like a sunflower to the sun.
It's been a hard few days, and probably won't get much easier. Mom is coping with the diminution of a 61-year marriage. Mom is also losing a step or two herself. My brother and I are going to keep as watchful an eye as we can, with frequent check-ins in person.
Adulthood sucks, y'all. Flying home Monday.
e: I told my husband, shamefacedly, that I envied him, because his father had woken up in the night, taken one step, and died. My husband said that I was right.
