OCR Text |
Show Nursing home/2 his last illness. All eight children were woven into a caring bond those long weeks as we watched what it meant to "die with dignity." Father's passing was gentle, sober, spiritual, even uplifting. Six months later our resolution was shattered as a blood clot took its toll on mother. Her dignity was reduced to a curtain pulled around her bed in a hospital intensive care unit. Institutional blankets covered her frail body. She was surrounded by tubes and life-sustaining equipment we vowed never to authorize. The room was dim, the voices hushed as warm hands cradled her cracked skin and fragile bones. There we had to face "the decision." Under stress this time, we had to admit that our homes would not provide the equipment nor skilled care we needed. The question was not "if," but "when?" On our exploratory visit to the nursing home we entered an unfamiliar land. "Residents" were in their wheelchairs or walkers, weaving along the halls, snail-paced. Corridors were equipped with banisters at hip level to steady the patients who could take walks. Arthritic patients, whose hands could not turn the wheels, pulled themselves along by grasping the rails. Room after room contained two beds, sometimes a television set, always a chair or two. If the occupants were not lying in bed, they were tied into a wheelchair as a relief position for their bedsores and congested lungs. There they sat for hours, looking silently at each other or out into the hall. Some were mobile enough to go to the recreation room to work on crafts, even to the dining area for meals. Others were trapped in their chairs or beds. We told mother this would be a nice place; the staff would be kind, the food would taste good, the medical care would be much better than we could provide at home. The reasons were listed as much for us as for her. |