Would you want to know when you will die? Why or why not? Personally, I don't want to know a specific date, but if I had a terminal illness I would want to know. I would want to prepare my family (tell my husband what outfit to bury me with, which priest needs to do my Mass, secret passwords to my blog, etc.). But more importantly I would want to prepare my SOUL.I have had the privilege of helping my parents with both of their journeys. They died only four months apart. As excruciating as it was to watch my parents' bodies fail day by day, hour by hour, knowing that their deaths were near, my experience would have been far more difficult had it not been for hospice care.
Before my father was diagnosed with malignant mesothelioma, I knew very little about hospice. I knew it had something to do with caring for the sick, but that was about the extent of my knowledge. The day my father was diagnosed, however, my whole world changed.
Daddy and Mama (my real, biological parents married to each other for 50 years) were very simple people with little formal education. They grew up living off the land, struggled through the Depression, and lived paycheck to paycheck all their lives. But they led a full and happy life thanks to the love of family and friends, and God. It was through my parents that I learned to appreciate the most simple things in life, like rolling through the grass, blowing bubbles in the rain, cooking food grown in your own back yard, and rocking babies.
The only time my parents ever went to the doctor was when they were extremely ill, and after they tried all of their home remedies. (Warm honey and lemon for the croup, peppermint extract for stomach ache, Vicsalve -Vics Vapo Rub - on a cotton ball, warmed by the heater and placed in the ear for earache.) One day the home remedies didn't work. Daddy's back hurt really bad, and neither Ben Gay, nor Bayer Asprin, nor the heating pad helped. Evidently it bothered him a lot, so he went to have it checked out. Again. And again. Once more. Another test. Wait. Another doctor. Or two. Or three. And a hospital visit. More tests.
Sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, the florescent lights and white tile tried to provide the illusion of a sterile environment, but I knew that the other family members who sat there before me left behind parts of their pain and agony, staining the entire energy of the room. The radiologist appeared, rushing down the hall to talk to me and my sisters. But that was his normal speed, so I was not too concerned. His butt barely hit the chair when he uttered the words I'll never forget:
"You DO know it's cancer, right?"
No. I didn't.
The next steps happened so quickly, like a snowball rolling down a hill, building momentum all the way.
Cancer. Mesothelioma. Caused from asbestos. Radiology. Oncology. Chemo. Doctors say it won't help. Stage IV. Always fatal. Call hospice. Six months or less. Get your affairs in order. HOSPICE.
I soon learned that Hospice would not only help my father to be as comfortable at home as possible and take care of his medical needs, but it would also provide my family with professionals who could help with counseling and spiritual needs, something we had never thought of. We were focusing on my father and his pain, yet without taking care of ourselves - physically, emotionally, and spiritually - we could not be at our best to take care of him.
Hospice was exactly what our family needed. As one pain medication no longer worked, we called the hospice nurse, even at 3am, and it was taken care of immediately. When my mother needed help with coping with the fact that her husband of 50 years would soon be gone, the social worker came in. And at least once a week, the chaplain came in and prayed with all of us. And after my father passed away, my sisters and I attended a support group for a few months so we could cope with his loss.
Hospice helped my family in dealing with my father's cancer, pain, and death, which was the most difficult thing I had ever dealt with in my life...until my mother was diagnosed with cancer just two months after my father's death.
Although my mother reacted differently to her illness - both mentally and physically - hospice was there with us every step of the way. They even arranged for volunteers to come and sit with Mama while we took a break. They took care of the needs of our entire family - even needs we didn't realize we had - which helped us focus on what really mattered...Mom and Dad.
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