Ken was in the hospital from Friday until Monday (at least I think it was Monday). Following the initial tests and x-rays, Dr. Schlabach came in and told us they had “done all they could do”. Then he looked at Ken and said, “I’m really sorry”, and he left. How crazy was that, to have to listen to the Dr. apologize to my husband because he knew Ken was about to die and there was nothing he could do to stop it?!
Before Dr. S. left that morning, he made some mention of Hospice. But that’s all I thought it was...a mention. And then he went on to talk about the thoracentesis and stuff like that. I did not realize it, but what he had been asking me was whether I wanted Ken to stay in the hospital or go home with Hospice. I guess my brain was still in fighting mode. I knew Ken was dying, but I honestly didn’t realize at that point that he was in his last days. I was thinking it was just another trip to the hospital – they’d fix what was wrong this time, we’d go back home and everything would be okay until the next thing cropped up.
The chest x-ray showed that Ken had fluid in his chest cavity. That is why his oxygenation level was so low. They decided to send him down for a thoracentesis, which is where they insert a long needle into the chest cavity and draw out fluid. I was so bone-weary and exhausted that I was going to stay up in the room while they took Ken down for the procedure. But he got a look of absolute panic on his face and said, “You are going down with me, right?” So I did. I remember having to rest my arms and head on his bed rail while we were waiting because I was unsteady on my feet. Finally, one of the nurses took pity on me and set a chair right next to his bed for me so I could sit right beside him and hold his hand.
When they took Ken in, they sent me to a waiting area that was really for outpatient procedures. I sat there with tears pouring down my face and dripping onto my shirt, listening to all of the other “waiters” chatting and laughing, acting as though there was nothing in the world wrong. I remember thinking to myself, “How can these people be laughing when my dear husband is dying?” I know they didn’t know, but it seemed disrespectful and it hurt my feelings. One lady must have realized my distress, because she stopped chatting and laughing at one point and asked me if I was alright. I shook my head and said, “My husband has cancer.” She said how sorry she was and asked, “Is he going to be okay?” “No”, I said. “He is going to die.” She asked our names and promised to pray for us. About that time they told me that Ken was on his way back up to his room. When I got back up there, the nurse told me that they had drawn almost a liter and a half of fluid out of Ken’s chest cavity. He should be able to breathe a little easier now.
Later that day, a nurse or social worker came in. I was laying down, trying to rest while Ken slept. She came over to my bed and started talking about Hospice again. I listened and nodded my head, wondering why she was telling me the same things Dr. S. had already gone over that morning. I guess the combination of exhaustion mixed with a little bit of denial was making me rather thick-headed because she finally said, “Dr. Schlabach says you need to make a decision.” HUH?! “What decision?”, I stammered. Her reply stunned me – “You need to decide if you want Ken to stay in the hospital for his final days or do you want to take him home?” Several seconds ticked by...I kept blinking my eyes and shaking my head as if doing so would clear my mind and allow me to absorb the enormity of what she had just said. I finally whispered, mostly to myself, “Ken would want to be home.” Then I looked up at the nurse and said, “But I don’t know how I would be able to get him home, he’s so weak and he can’t walk.” She said, “Hospice will arrange to take him home in an ambulance, if that is what you want.” I must have nodded my head, because she got up and said she would start making the arrangements.
I got up and went to Ken’s bed to tell him what was going to happen. I said, “Baby, the doctor says there’s nothing else they can do, so they’re going to get an ambulance to take you home.” Ken’s reaction was a look of incredulous anger. Somehow he had gotten the idea that they were going to do another thoracentesis the next day and that it would help him get better. I don’t know why he thought that, because a second thoracentesis was NOT discussed and was NEVER a possibility. As I was trying to explain to him that a second procedure would not be helpful, he looked at me with pure anger and shouted, “YOU ARE JUST TAKING ME HOME TO WATCH ME DIE!” (Whew...it still feels like a sledge-hammer to my heart when I remember it.) I couldn’t answer him...because I knew what he said was true. I finally managed to tell him that if he wanted to stay at the hospital we would, but they would not be doing any additional procedures on him. Ken turned away from me and muttered, “Take me home.”
Things kind of started going in fast-motion then. The nurses were coming in, removing Ken’s IV, giving me discharge papers to sign, getting our address and directions to the house for the ambulance drivers, telling me someone from Hospice would meet us at the house. I had barely had enough time to gather up all of my stuff and call to let Mama know we were coming home when the ambulance crew got there. They started getting ready to load Ken on the gurney when he looked up in a panic and said, “You are going to ride in the ambulance with me, right?” He was just so frightened and didn’t want me to leave him alone that he forgot that he was mad at me. I stroked his forehead and said, “No, baby, my car is here. I have to drive home. But these guys are going to take really good care of you and I’ll be right behind you.” I leaned over and kissed him and said, “I’ll see you at home.” He nodded his head and closed his eyes.
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